


staccato

by bobtheacorn



Series: And Never Again Feel Weak [10]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asexual Keith (Voltron), Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Black Paladin Keith (Voltron), Blood and Injury, Established Relationship, Galra Keith (Voltron), Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Lance (Voltron) Has ADHD, M/M, Minor Character Death, Nightmares, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Panic Attacks, Red Paladin Lance (Voltron), Whumptober 2019, but soft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-25 23:43:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 24,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20920589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobtheacorn/pseuds/bobtheacorn
Summary: The longer Keith stands there, silent, motionless, the more unsettled Lance becomes.--chapter 16;fissuring into the shadows/Whumptober prompts, 2019/2020





	1. tenuous in places

**Author's Note:**

> Bold of me to label any of these as "whump" when it is thinly disguised hurt/comfort... with emphasis on the comfort in some cases.
> 
> Who's going to fight me over it? No one, that's who!
> 
> If you haven't read my klance series And Never Again Feel Weak, you might be a little ??? for some of these, but I'm not gonna tell you how to live your life if you want to enjoy them out of context. Most of them are stand-alone-ish. The main context u need is: Shiro is gone and Keith and Lance are co-leading the team, and also dating. And they're idiots.
> 
> If you DID read ANAFW, hello again! Here's more, because I can't leave things alone, belated because I lack the ability to self-motivate! ♡

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober 2019: Day 1. Shaking Hands

Lance has never been so angry or so scared in his life.

To be fair, he probably has.

After three years in space, fighting a war, building up alliances, this sort of mission is run-of-the-mill. Garden variety. Daily-basis. Normal, in whatever skewed sense of normalcy that they have in their lives. 

But that's not the point right now.

The  _ point is  _ that Keith is a selfish, reckless idiot and Lance is going to kill him. His hands are shaking so badly that Red's controls rattle, the noise soft under the hum of machinery and the deep rumble from Red himself, touching against their bond, a reassurance at the back of Lance's mind.

Lance doesn't let himself be comforted.

The fact that Keith is safe - alive, in one piece, flying right in front of him - does not alleviate the very justifiable anger that is burning through Lance's body, bone and flesh alike. He doesn't say anything over the comms. Knows now isn't the time to be letting his temper flare, or distracting everyone from the task at hand. But once this skirmish dies down and they manage to suppress the rest of the space pirates - the moment they're back on solid ground, Keith is in for it 

Every time Lance sees a bit of debris from the nursery hub that Beta Five was using to regrow endangered flora from other planets, he only gets angrier.

It's bad enough that the pirates bombed the place and ruined years and  _ years _ of progress.

Keith just  _ had  _ to -

_ "Lance, on your six." _

Lance yanks the left-hand control back, slams a button. Red whips around, lightening fast, and their lava beam boils between his open jaws, obliterating the unpiloted drone that's been hounding him for the last two clicks. There's another one right behind it, and Red pounces, snatching it up in his molten jaws until the metal oozes and sparks and then hurling the detritus away. It scatters into space.

They're the last ones.

Pidge and Allura have boarded the ship and apprehended the pirates. Hunk is already breaking away to see what he can salvage among the nursery's rubble, and Keith is calmly giving out orders and praise, like he didn't just -

_ "Good job, Lance." _

Keith's voice over the comm startles Lance; the smile in his voice, the obvious pride.

Lance scowls and mutes him by slamming his fist down on the consol. Red grumbles a warning. Lance mutters an earnest apology and sits back in his seat.

Takes a breath and lets it out.

Loosens his grip.

His hands are shaking, shaking, along with his nerves. And they're still shaking around the lip of his helmet half a varga later, as he stands in the hall outside the hanger on Beta Five and waits for the others - waits for Keith - to join them so they can discuss what to do about the pirates, and the destroyed nursery that so many worlds were counting on.

Hunk knows he's pissed. Him and Allura are speaking to the lead biologist, and they both keep glancing over at him while the other is talking.

Lance takes a deep breath to calm himself down.

It's fine.

It's totally fine.

Pidge is trotting down the hall toward them, looking gleeful about the pirates getting their due, and Keith is right behind them. He's alive. Perfectly healthy. Not a scratch on him. Black and white armour entirely unblemished. Keith is smiling the moment he makes eye contact with Lance, but his smile falls away as Lance storms out to meet him, when he catches the expression on Lance's face.

Pidge scampers out of Lance's way, frowning at him; looks at Hunk, who rubs his forehead and sighs, and Allura, who grasps the lead biologist by the arm as if to lead him away before the fireworks begin.

"What the hell were you thinking!?" Lance demands, voice ringing in the hall. 

Keith looks shocked by Lance's tone, by the anger that snaps at the air between them like a physical thing. His eyes widen and he slows down to a walk, then finally a stop, watching Lance approach him like he's caught in a tractor beam and can't pull himself free.

It's almost enough to quell Lance's temper, but he lets it build instead, "What part of  _ there's a bomb under your feet  _ did you not understand, Keith!? You were right on top of it! You could have been blown into a million little pieces and I don't know what I would have done! What the quiznak was  _ so important  _ that you were running back across the field when you should have been getting to safety along with the rest of us!?"

Keith has pulled some mindless stunts before, and Lance has been scared of losing him before, but not since they've been  _ together. _ There is a rawness in Lance's emotions that he wouldn't allow himself to show before, that threatens to shake him apart, and now that he  _ can _ he doesn't hold anything back. He  _ wants _ Keith to know  _ exactly _ how he feels.

How scared was when he thought Keith wasn't going to make it back to his Lion in time.

How angry he is that he feels  _ so much. _

Their relationship is still new. It is tenuous in places, awkward and uncertain - and it is so bright and strong in others, where they've had the chance to build things up, that sometimes Lance can't bear it. He can't bear how much he loves Keith. And just  _ knowing _ that Keith understands and returns his feelings - knowing that he  _ knows _ and he  _ still _ took that risk - it amplifies everything tenfold, good and bad alike. It makes moments like this one terrible, when something has knocked them out of rhythm and they are both struggling for footing.

He can't understand why Keith would put himself in danger like that for nothing.

Keith doesn't seem to have recovered from his shock.

He says, "Oh," in a small, stunned voice, "Uh…"

He looks down, slowly lifting his hand from his side, where it went unnoticed before. Lance's heart lurches, expecting an injury. A broken hand. A missing a finger, or worse. Worry surging up his throat.

It's all for nothing.

Gripped in Keith's fist is a clutch of battered flowers, electric blue with white leaves and stems, soil still clinging to their broken, tangled roots. They're the same flowers that were covering the field before it was blown to smithereens almost directly under Keith's feet.

He lingered to rip them out of the ground.

His face is red, his grey eyes downcast.

"I… I'm sorry, Lance. I didn't mean to scare you," Keith says. He doesn't mirror any of Lance's anger back at him. Just reaches down to take Lance's hand and folds it carefully around the flowers. "I was going and then I saw these and thought of you and… my brain shut off. It was… it was stupid."

Lance is the one who looks like he's been gobsmacked now, silent and gawking at the sad, dirty, tiny bouquet of rumpled flowers Keith has so tenderly placed in his shaking hands.

As eloquent as ever, he goes, "Wh-what?"

This is brand new ground for both of them and Keith doesn't seem to know what Lance is asking. He fumbles to explain his train of thought in the moment, "I… you like flowers. I mean, like. Getting flowers. That's - that's a romantic thing. I've been meaning to get you some, but I kept overthinking it. And I saw them and thought you'd probably like them but then there was… the bomb was going to detonate. I wouldn't have been able to go back and ask for any later. So I just…"

He gestures helplessly.

Lance… doesn't know what to say. He feels guilty… and excited. Giddy. His heart is racing. The shaking in his hands extends to the rest of him. He wants to smile, but he also wants to still be mad. Keith…. Keith  _ scared him. _ But he brought him flowers. Even in a moment of peril, he was thinking of Lance, and Lance stares down at the blue petals that are only shades brighter than his eyes, overwhelmed by the gesture.

"You… you got these for me?" Lance finally manages to ask, looking up at Keith with that same slack expression.

Keith winces, nodding.

"Sorry. I - "

"I love them."

Keith closes his mouth.

Lance goes on, "But don't - don't  _ do _ something like that again. Not for this. I couldn't - I…"

"Okay," Keith says immediately, "I won't. I won't be so careless next time, Lance. I promise."

"Store-bought is fine," Lance blurts out on a laugh.

Keith breaks into a wide, relieved smile.

Lance wants to kiss him.

"Are you quite finished?" Allura calls, startling them both, making them aware of their exasperated audience as they both turn to look at the grinning faces of the rest of their team and alien allies.

"Allura," Lance says, stepping toward her. His hands are shaking so badly there are petals and dirt dusting the floor. "I need - I need a vase."

He catches sight of the biologist, and panics. Quiznak. This species of flowers is endangered. Possibly the very last of their kind. His first bouquet, a bouquet from  _ Keith, _ because he thought of him - and he can't even keep it.

Is he really considering fighting this nerdy, reed-thin biologist over them?

…..Maybe.

To his surprise and relief, the biologist beckons him forward with a smile, "Anything to accommodate you, Paladin Lance. Paladin Hunk tells me the storage bay of the nursery wasn't badly damaged during the blast. Our seeds and pods and root samples have all survived! We can rebuild the nursery and begin anew."

Lance let's the stupid smile that he's feeling overtake his face and ducks his head into the tiny bouquet. The flowers have a sweet, clean scent like lavender. He combs them gently into a more appealing arrangement, and even after he's given a vase with vitamin-rich water to extend their longevity, he still clutches at the vase, and smiles at Keith, who smiles back and looks away, his cheeks tinted pink.

Lance reaches out to hold his hand.


	2. the heat of his skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober 2019: Day 2. Explosion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one directly references the 7th part of the series where (spoilers) Lance loses his leg during an explosion. /jazz hands
> 
> Y'all get two today because I'm behind, so also two tomorrow!

Lance doesn't have nightmares about the explosion that caused him to lose his leg - doesn't even remember it, to be honest. It's an unhappy blank space in his memory that sits wrong in his chest when he thinks about it, a pang that makes him _ aware _ of the weight attached to his thigh, a story he knows because everyone else has recited it a dozen times.

He doesn't even remember a whole lot of his hospital stay. Space morphine will do that.

So no, Lance isn't the one kicking his boyfriend awake in the middle of the night, grabbing onto him tightly and crying out in his sleep.

That's Keith.

Even months, and months, and _ months _ after the accident; after they've brought all their bad feelings to light and talked things out, and set themselves on the slow road to recovery hand-in-hand. Things are getting better. Easier. Lance's leg hurts less and less, his medicine is regulated, the prosthetics movements are becoming more natural, and he's building up his strength and stamina and his confidence again, soaring through his training regimens with Keith and the others' help.

Lance is here, and he's healthy, and he's _ alive, _ and he's so extremely grateful to have such an amazing network of support. Things are so good.

And yet Keith is still waking him up out of a deep sleep some nights, curling around him and sobbing.

The way Keith clings to him does not spark any recognition in Lance, but he knows Keith is reliving that awful moment in Red when Lance was dying and he couldn't do anything to stop it. Shrapnel from the volatile engine of the passenger ship they had been evacuating had ripped through Lance's leg, suit, armor, muscle and all. It severed an artery. He was bruised and broken in several places.

His heart had stopped.

Fully stopped.

Lance can't remember it, and Keith can't forget it.

And poor Keith, months later, is gasping and mumbling into the crook of his neck, his hands so tight around Lance that they hurt. Keith's distress is more than enough to rouse Lance at once, though he's generally a heavy sleeper. Lance shifts beneath the press of Keith's body so Keith can feel him move, breathes deeply so Keith can feel his chest rise and know that he's alive. Lance hums so Keith can hear his voice, he bends his knees to curl around Keith in return and lifts his hands to soothe Keith anywhere he can reach.

Fingers carding through his dark hair, rubbing his back, patting the arm Keith has viced around him.

He turns his face into Keith's hair and murmurs a soft litany, "Hey. Keith. It's okay, _ cariño. _ I'm right here. I'm okay. We're both safe." The same string of words on repeat, for as long as Keith needs to hear them. Until his gut-wrenching sobs have subsided into stuttering breaths and his grip has loosened. He nuzzles Lance's neck, still not quite awake.

He finds Lance's steady pulse under his scent, close to his mark, and that works to calm him as much as everything else does.

Lance brushes Keith's hair back, tips his head up, and peppers his face with soft kisses until Keith's dark eyes are blinking open. There's a flicker, and then that Galra yellow illuminates them, the soft glow accenting the tear tracks wetting Keith's cheeks and Lance's palms, and the tears that continue to pool out and spill down them, unbidden. Lance rubs them away as they fall and kisses both of Keith's eyes closed again.

"Lance…" Keith mumbles.

"Mhm. I'm right here, Keith," Lance says, "I'm okay. You're okay."

"It was- my fault -" Keith's breath hitches up, more tears welling out. Lance's heart twists inside of him at how broken Keith sounds. "I - could have done something differently - I-"

His grip tightens again, his face twisting.

Lance hates that Keith is blaming himself for something that was beyond his ability to control. He aches deeply at the thought of losing Keith, and that sense of guilt is familiar to him. _ It was my fault. I could have done something differently. _ Their quintessence bond is flushed with these ravenous emotions, all dark, anxious, churning waters that Lance has swam himself. He doesn't have to imagine how Keith feels.

Lance hugs Keith tightly, leaning down to press his cheek against Keith's, lifting Keith's hand to his chest, between them, where he can feel his heartbeat.

"It wasn't your fault, _ cariño. _It was just a nightmare. Okay? Everything's fine."

Keith nods, a sigh punching out of him. His palm presses, presses, _ presses _ into Lance's heartbeat, the heat of his skin, the way Lance's chest rises and falls. Lance hums to him softly, petting his hair. He rocks them both gently with his prosthetic foot, bouncing where it's crossed over Keith's calf, and eventually Keith's body relaxes, exhausted and lulled into what Lance hopes will be more peaceful dreams.

His breathing slows to match Lance's and the frantic patter of his heart does the same, a soft staccato than blends into a perfect harmony.


	3. an uneven rhythm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober 2019: Day 3. Delirium

The bad news is: some planets in the universe, either by choice or evolution, have developed natural repellents against the Galra. Plants attuned to some aspect of the Galra DNA (or perhaps their quintessence) will release poisonous scents or spores, grow barbed thorns, spread constricting vines, or some other monstrous floral attributes, when they sense Galra are near.

The good news is: Keith is only half Galra.

So some things that might have a more fatal effect on a full-blooded Galra only hit him half as hard.

The bad news again is that none of them consider the potential danger because it has never been an issue before, and Keith doesn't notice right away when something is  _ wrong. _

He notices a funny smell in the air as he and the other Paladins are passing through the private garden of one of the important families of some planet they're trying to bring into the Coalition of Free People. They've been received as honored guests and will be staying with the family while they work out negotiations with the planet's leaders. The garden is something the family is very proud of, and so they're showing it off.

There are flowers and trees and bushes blooming and bearing fruit of every color.

Tucked under his arm, Keith's helmet beeps.

Pidge has already done a thorough scan of the planet's atmosphere and confirmed that there's enough oxygen to breathe and nothing harmful to humans. The alarm that beeps is not a vital one. It's not a danger-is-coming, take-immediate-action alarm. It interrupts what their host is saying, though, and Keith quickly silences it, with apologies.

He means to glance at it later but forgets.

\--

"Go for a walk with me?"

Lance asks with his hands extended, with a big, hopeful smile already in place.

They're sharing a room for the first time on a mission and they're both a little giddy and a little embarrassed about it - giddy because they get to spend more time with each other, embarrassed because of how eager their hosts were to accommodate them when they asked. Their room is right off the gardens and has an incredible view of some of the brightest blooming trees the grounds have to offer. There's still about a varga before dinner, and they've already finished unpacking, changed out of their armour, visited the others' rooms, and settled into their own.

Keith smiles back and takes Lance's hands, letting him work to pull him up from his seat on the bed.

"Lazy," Lance huffs at him.

Keith laughs.

Lance drags him out onto the patio through a sliding glass door and into the garden through a swinging gate. They walk the smooth dirt paths through the gardens again, this time without an escort waxing on and on about history and agricultural techniques and all sorts of other things that they have to pretend to be interested in. Lance is the one that fills the quiet with his silly jokes and comments, pointing out the flowers that he likes, and Keith is happy to let him.

That funny smell hits him again - something cloying, sickly sweet. Like curdled milk masked with an overly flowery perfume. Keith wrinkles his nose and ignores it - focuses on the warmth of Lance's hand, and the soothing lilt in his voice - and as they pass through the garden the scent fades and he can breathe a little easier. At the end of a winding path, Lance finds a cute little pond with a bench and lots of swirling golden fish and blue lily pads.

Excited to look, he lets go of Keith's hand and surges forward.

Keith feels winded, knocked off-balanced, as if Lance suddenly untethered him, and he sways forward to catch ahold on the bench to steady himself.

Lance sees the lurching movement out of the corner of his eye and shoots him a look, alarmed.

"Keith? You okay, babe?"

"Y-yeah," Keith says. But he doesn't feel right. Felt better when Lance was grounding him. 

Why is he so lightheaded?

Has his breathing always been so loud?

Has the sound of his heartbeat always been  _ so loud? _

The moment Keith becomes aware of it, his heart rate spikes. It goes from a deep, steady drum beat inside his chest to an erratic gallop beating at every inch of him, and it flushes is body with a sticky warmth that makes his legs tremor and his vision swim, his breath pulling in sharper. Keith grips the back of the bench tighter, but the wood grain splinters and digs into his palms. When he lets it go with a small cry and looks at it, it smooths out again.

His palms were bloodied and now they're fine.

Lance is stepping toward him, reaching out to touch him - only it's not Lance.

It's something that looks like Lance. Something that sounds like Lance. It's something that stole Lance's blue eyes, and his rich voice, and his warm hands, and his perfect smile and his teeth are all that Keith can focus on because they're taking up it's whole face. Those hands grip Keith's arms and pull him in, and Keith hears an echo in Lance's voice.

_ "Keith. Seriously, dude, you're freaking me out -" _

Keith screams.

The thing that looks like Lance but isn't Lance flinches. Keith wrenches himself away from it and he takes off into the forest.

When did it get so dark?

When did the trees get so big?

Has the sky always looks like that? Black, swallowing black, swallowing black.

It hurts to be in the sun. When Keith hits a patch glaring through the canopy, he drops to his knees and crawls between the bushes until it goes away. The roots and rocks pull him hard against the ground and cut his knees. He scrambles up, and runs again. He doesn't remember why. There's something chasing him. Calling for him. The thing that sounds like Lance, and looks like Lance, but isn't Lance. It comes close enough to grab him even though he tries so hard to get away, and he begs it to let him go. It trips him up and he can't breathe and it's got him and it's all teeth and nails and Keith swings. 

It tumbles off of him, and Keith runs.

Every little thing is out to get him. The rocks, the grass, the bugs. The trees reach out to smack him, razor-sharp bark and leaves as heavy as stones. The flowers are trying to confuse him. That scent claws at his senses. They keep moving, and turning him around, and the thing that looks like Lance but isn't Lance is back and Keith's chest is heaving, his face wet, his heart pounding out an uneven rhythm.

How many times is he going to have to scream before the thing that isn't Lance leaves him alone?

How long will he have to run before it doesn't want to chase him anymore?

There are more of them now, imitating his friends, beckoning him to them.

Hunk, but it's not Hunk.

Pidge, but it's not Pidge.

Coran, but it's not Coran.

Allura, but it's not Allura, and that one scares him the most because it comes the closest. It is swifter than the others, and Keith can't outrun it. It's fingers dig into his arms and it bares him to the ground, and Keith thrashes and begs but it doesn't release him.

_ "Pidge! I have him!" _

_ "Hold him still!" _

There's a sharp pain in his lower back - it's the realest thing that Keith has felt so far. It makes his whole body go slack almost at once. All the shapes and sounds and colors that were blurring together start to solidify. The ground beneath him is covered in blue-green moss, the details immaculate, and it isn't trying to suffocate him or sprouting up to choke him.

It's just soft and cool against his bare skin, and Keith realizes belatedly, in a hazy, absent way, that at some point he stripped out of his clothes.

Allura's weight leaves his back, and her small, gentle, familiar hands help him to his feet.

She's not trying to hurt him.

She's not something else pretending to be Allura.

She's just Allura, looking at him with concern, trying something around his waist.

"Keith," she says firmly, "Now, I don't want you to panic, but I need you to walk with me as quickly as you can, alright? We have to get you out of the garden. Can you do that for me? Do you understand?"

"Okay," Keith mumbles, feeling woozy, missing Lance.

His breath is short and his body is hot. Details keep shifting around on him, standing out sharply and then dissolving into a haze with the slightest movement of his head. It makes walking difficult, but he manages it with Allura holding his arm and carefully guiding him. He doesn't remember the trip through the garden, or the house halls, or the murmuring throng of people all around him, anxious and outraged. He gets led into a cool, quiet room and sat on a bench, and they want to put a mask that's hissing over his face, and Keith refuses, pulse racing muddily again, until he realizes that Lance is the one holding it and talking to him softly.

Not something pretending to be Lance.

_ Lance. _

Keith let's Lance hold the mask over his nose and mouth, and he breathes. Stops gasping. Stops shaking. Stops feeling like he's going to boil over and spill out across the floor. He brings his own hand up to curl around Lance's where it's holding the mask in place, deep breaths pulling into his lungs and clearing his head. Lance's other hand is steady, cupping the back of his neck.

A voice registers, reproachful,

"You didn't tell us your leader was of Galra blood. We would have never let him into the garden."

Lance's fingers twitch against Keith's neck. His mouth, already pulled into a worried frown, tightens dangerously, and he whips his head around to glare at the speaker, who is beyond Keith's line of vision. All he can see is Lance's chest; his red and gold shirt, the detail of the buttons leading down; that it's rumbled and muddied, when it was clean before.

Allura speaks before Lance does. Though her words are more composed, her voice is just as sharp, "Keith's lineage is something personal that he may divulge at his own discretion, and it has no bearing whatsoever on his ability to pilot the Black Lion or lead the Coalition. We had no reason to believe he would come under attack for it while under your guardianship."

"Be at peace, Princess," their host says, "We have no ill feelings toward the Black Paladin. We only meant that we would have kept him out of the garden for his own safety. The beguri petals in bloom give off a scent made to debilitate the Galra. It is one of the agricultural techniques we are most proud of - and one we hope we will not have to pass on to future generations. We are aware that many of your allies are Galra, but we did not know there was one among your party. If you will accept our sincerest apologies, we would be glad to move forward with the negotiations as planned. And we will of course move the Paladins' rooms to a more desirable location at once."

"I suppose that's up to Keith," Allura says coolly.

"Will he be alright?" Hunk asks, "What do you mean by  _ debilitate _ mean, exactly? What did those plants to do him?"

"It drives the Galra mad so that they turn on each other," their host says, a bit nervously, "He wasn't exposed for very long, and he's quite calm, now -"

"We had to sedate him," Pidge snaps, "He was running from us, naked and screaming."

"Yes… Well. It - it doesn't seem to have affected him in quite the same way as it affects other Galra. That's for the best! I'm certain there should be no lasting harm. He should be recovered within a few nebules, once all the spores are out of his lungs."

"I'd like to see the relocation of our quarters straight away, Ferserian, if you would be so kind," Coran says, a steely hint in his friendly request.

"Yes. Yes, of course. If you'll please follow me."

There are footsteps retreating, and a door opening and closing, and it's only after that Lance's grip around him finally relaxes. He looks at Keith tenderly, and eases the mask away from his face. Keith can tell the difference between the pure oxygen in the mask and the more natural oxygen in the room. The sedative Pidge gave him keeps him from panicking about it.

"Keith," Lance says softly, "You feelin' alright?"

Keith nods, lifting Lance's hand again and covering his face with the mask. Lance holds it in place for him and soothes his hand through Keith's hair. It's comforting, and Keith is glad that Lance can touch him like this, that Lance  _ wants _ to touch him like this, a balm to his over-frayed nerves. When that hand strays to his shoulder, Keith notices the slight sting Lance's palm leaves across his skin and glances down. 

He's covered in dirt and leaves, and tiny red scratches.

They stripe his arms and chest - shallow furrows that barely even bled - and what he can see of his legs around the sheet Allura was merciful enough to cover him with.

Because he was running through the public garden.

Butt naked.

"He should be fine, Lance," Pidge pipes up, "I've finished analyzing the beguri flowers. It's basically just space acid."

"Oh, word?" Hunk says, with a bewildered laugh.

"Yeah," Pidge is snickering now, "He had a bad trip, but I don't think it was enough to kill any of his brain cells."

"It would have been funny if it hadn't been so frightening," Allura admits.

Keith groans into the mask, and the others laugh.

"It's okay, babe," Lance says, kissing his forehead, "I still respect you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hnnnn Thank you guys so much for reading and commenting, the response to these little bits really made my day ♡ I'll try to get another one out before night!


	4. "Hypocrite."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober 2019: Day 4. Human Shield

Really, what else is Lance supposed to do?

He notices the sniper too late.

That's on him. That's  _ his _ mistake.

He was supposed to be watching the perimeter of the plaza and instead he kept getting snagged on Keith. The fit of his Altean-style tunic - white with gold and black highlights to symbolize his status as the Black Paladin - the way it hugs his chest and shoulders, snug at his waist. That cute half-smile that tugs up his cheek when people swoop in to speak to him, the way his brow remains furrowed no matter how he tries to smooth his face out. The repetitive motion of his thumb swiping over the length of his fingers as he folds his arms across his chest self consciously, only to drop them at his sides a moment later, aware that he's closing himself off to people.

He's giving a speech today, and he's nervous.

He's worried that he's sweating too much, keeps flapping his arms like a penguin and trying to be discreet about it, keeps ducking close to Lance to ask if his deodorant has worn off.

Lance reassures him that it hasn't. He laughs warmly, he cracks a joke. He smooths out the barely-there creases Keith has put into his clothes and does his best to ease his worries with words of encouragement.

_ It's no big deal. You're gonna do fine, babe. _

_ Just like every other speech on every other planet. _

The difference is, they know that there are Galra insurgents on the loose, angling to disrupt the peace assembly somehow, and they are all alert for the slightest sign of danger. Except Keith is feeling overwhelmed, doesn't like being put in the spotlight even after all these years. And Lance is tuned to him like a radio with broken knobs - he couldn't change the station even if he wanted to. 

Lance catches the movement in the corner of his eye an instant before the shot rings out.

In that instant, he sees the sniper, the rifle - commits them both to memory - and calculates the bullets trajectory. It's archaic, really. An actual rifle, and actual bullet. So low-tech, and yet it is the least alarming thing about the situation. Lance's heart seizes. He tackles Keith to the pavement. No hesitation, hands on his shoulders, weight bearing him down. There's a sharp pinch that jars the back of his shoulder and tears through his chest, that rattles his bones, pinching muscles and nerves. A blow that knocks the wind out of him as he goes down on top of Keith.

He grunts the location into his earpiece, eyes squeezed shut, teeth grit against the pain, and hears Pidge's corresponding  _ I'm on him _ over the sudden storming of the crowd surging around them. Allura says she's got another one in her sights. Hunk is charging a third. Coran and the planet's leaders are trying to direct the panicking people.

There's movement underneath him, and Lance's relief explodes out of him along wit his breath. Adrenaline rushes through his bloodstream, has him moving to his knees, unsteady, has him grasping at Keith - or trying to. His right arm doesn't want to move and his shoulder burns with the effort, his fingers numb and shaking as they skim over Keith's back, his arms, his chest as Keith turns and grasps at him too.

"Are you.. okay? Are you okay? Keith -"

Lance is gasping, his vision hazing at the edges.

"I'm fine, Lance," Keith growls it like the words themselves are an agony to say. His hands around Lance's biceps are like iron. "Can you walk? Talk to me."

Lance nods, and his head swims. He can feel his pulse, sluggish and heavy.

"Yeah. I can - I can walk."

Keith nods grimly and pulls Lance with him, gets them on their feet and moving with the flow of the evacuating crowd, all the while talking into his earpiece and keeping track of the others, all the while turning his head to check their surroundings. He accommodates Lance's wobbly legs and bears his weight until they're hunkered down out of the way, behind the high rise of the platform where Keith was supposed to give his speech. There are several other civilians huddled here and delegates trying to keep everyone grouped together and calm.

Keith shoves Lance down against the wall and practically falls on top of him. Lance doesn't understand why until he glances down to where Keith's hands are pushing at his chest and back, pinning his shoulder between them, and sees the bullet's exit point high in his right shoulder, the river of blood that smothers the highlights of red in his own white tunic.

"Oh no," he slurs, swinging his head up to look at Keith, blearily searching for a wound. He was supposed to stop it and it went right through him. His whole body is  _ so _ useless. "Did it get you?"

"Lance, I'm fine, stop asking," Keith snaps.

Lance's shoulder burns as Keith presses it between his hands, and the blood just keeps pulsing through between his fingers. Lance winces, biting his lip. He closes his eyes - they're heavy anyway - and drops his head back against the wall. Keith let's out a desperate breath and adjusts the pressure.

Another set of hands joins Keith's and begins pulling Lance's clothes open.

Keith practically snarls at the newcomer.

_ "Don't touch him." _

The response he gets is unbelievably calm, a woman's voice, "I am only trying to help, Paladin Keith. Let me see the wound. This will help to seal it."

Keith's entire body is tense. Lance can feel it in the press of his hands, the way he leans into Lance's chest; can practically taste it in the air. He can't get his eyes open, but his left hand moves, falling clumsily on Keith's knee. After that, the tension floods out of him. The pressure lets off Lance's shoulder, only to be replaced immediately once his shirt is peeled away.

There's a sticky heat that brings him back around a little bit. Lance hadn't realized he was dozing off until his head lifts and his eyes blink open. His mind is still spinning, caught on the earlier restless movements of Keith's hands, the rasp of his laughter, his grey-violet eyes and how they're tinged yellow right now, staring into Lance's. It plants Lance solidly in the moment again.

There's a salve rubbed into both wounds in his shoulder. They aren't bleeding anymore, and it's left him feeling pleasantly numb. He still can't move his fingers.

Keith is kneeling beside him, one hands around his uninjured arm and one on his chest to hold him steady. He's talking to the others through his earpiece, distracted but calm - it sounds like they have the situation under control, and Lance lets his eyes drift closed again, his head nodding.

Keith bumps his forehead against Lance's, and Lance smiles without meaning to.

Keith gusts out a shaking breath against his lips.

"Don't do that," Keith murmurs, his voice wrecked, "Don't take a bullet for me, Lance."

"Don't tell me what to do," Lance murmurs back, "Hypocrite."

Keith's laugh is a hopeless one. He hugs Lance that much closer, shielding him with his body.


	5. his choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober 2019: Day 5. Gunpoint

This is the sort of situation that escalated quickly.

Keith and Lance have done this routine a hundred times by now - infiltrated a Galra cruiser, picked their way through the sparse drones, and stormed the bridge, taking down whoever's in charge along with the soldiers standing by them. Hubris usually does most of the work for them. These are pure-blooded defectors from the Empire, too good to take the knee for an Emperor who is a "halfbreed, at best", too consumed by their ravenous ideas of glory and self adulation to work toward a better future for everyone.

Needless to say, Keith is shocked when this almost mundane mission goes off-script.

One moment he's dispatching a Galra soldier with a blow to the head, with the flat of his sword so it stuns the man rather than kills him.

The next there is a warning shot sizzling past his cheek.

Keith whirls around - and his whole body freezes, ice slipping through his veins.

The burly Galra General has Lance pinned face-down on the console, both his arms twisted behind his back and gripped between one clawed fist. His shoulder has been yanked out of the socket and Lance has his teeth grit, his knees bent awkwardly against the front of the console, feet struggling on the floor to find purchase for any kind of leverage. Even if he could get leverage, he wouldn't use it to get away. The barrel of a laser pistol digs into the back of his skull beneath his ear.

Keith is hyper-aware of everything in that moment.

Lance's breathing, ragged from the struggle and working to even out. The way it hitches as the General mercilessly adjusts his grip and pulls Lance's straining arms higher, tighter to his shoulder blades. The give of his dark, tender skin beneath the barrel of the pistol. Keith breathes out, and swears it's full of heat, burning it's way out of him as that icy fear evaporates into rage. Lance is calm though, and that permeates their bond.

Keith drops his bayard immediately and splays his hands.

The General sneers, "Thought so."

He proceeds to monologue - derisive remarks about Keith being a half-breed just like their lowly "Emperor", letting his instinctive gut-worry for his mate override his own self-preservation. Keith only gives him half an ear in case he says anything relevant, but all his other senses are searching out something, anything, he can use as a distraction. The others soldiers on the bridge are down. This is the General's last bid to get his way, and if he doesn't - 

Lance's hand moves.

It's subtle, a barely-there flex of his fingers, but it's got Keith's eyes darting to it like a moth to a flame.

Once Lance knows he has Keith's attention he opens his hand and counts down with his fingers; puts his thumb against his palm, pinky, ring finger. Keith inhales, deep and steady, slowly lifts his empty hands higher and pulls his right arm back further as he watches the General.

Lance's hand closes into a fist.

Pidge's hacker icon blinks to life on the console screen. It creates a rapid chain reaction. In an overwhelming sweep, every screen on the bridge lights green and the room spills over with that silly chuckling icon that wiggles back and forth tauntingly. Lance must have been punching in the override code when the General got ahold of him - and it's the distraction Keith was waiting for.

He closes his right fist, his bayard manifesting, and the instant the General looks away, startled by the blinking, chuckling screens - the second that barrel lifts so much as an inch away from Lance's skin - Keith sends the weapon hurtling across the room.

The black sword thuds through the General's armour, centered in his enormous chest.

A wet noise punches out of him, his face slackening in shock.

The pistol clatters to the floor and his grip on Lance loosens enough that Lance wrenches his arms free and scrambles up, away from him as the enormous brute staggers back and then falls. The black bayard dematerializes and that speeds the process along some. It really is ugly, watching the life drain out of someone and knowing your the reason they're not going to get up again. But Lance is moving to stand beside Keith, wincing as he watches the gruesome scene in front of them unfold, holding his dislocated arm by the bicep, close against his side.

The General wouldn't have hesitated. It is still "Victory or Death" for these Galra.

And Keith does not regret his choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I have motivation!  
My motivation: Who?
> 
> Thank u guys for reading...! *prayer hands emoji*


	6. tug-o-war

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober 2019: Day 6. Dragged Away

In Lance's defense….

He doesn't touch things he isn't supposed to touch _ on purpose. _

That is a poor side-effect of not being medicated for his ADHD and his body is just giving in to the instinctual, relentless impulse to move, touch, tap, pick up, open, close, open again, stack, scratch at, count, rub, draw on, close, open, close, open _ again, _ literally anything within his immediate reach without him realizing it. He clicks pens, drums his hands, bounces his knee, peels the enamel polish off of a table if he is left sitting at it and no one notices and stops him.

He just needs to be _ stimulated _ and sometimes he's _ not. _

So he fidgets.

So he touches things that he probably shouldn't.

Sometimes those things touch back. (Has he mentioned that he hates space sometimes, because plant life is a little more sentient and a little (a LOT) more voracious than it is on Earth?)

They've been in this clearing for almost a full varga, waiting on a supply drop, and Lance has already paced a path around the perimeter, exhausted his interest in _ I Spy _ and any other verbal game he can play with Hunk and Keith, and plucked a bare patch into the grass weaving bracelets for them all. Hunk is the most patient one of the bunch, which is why he came along. Keith is quickly losing any patience that he has as Lance becomes more restless and, thus, more annoying.

"Would you _ sit down?" _ he finally snaps.

Lance turns on him, clutching his hands so tightly together that they hurt. He had just been pacing and plucking at the helpless foliage again, and his patience is _ threadbare. _

"I don't have anything to _ do, _ Keith!"

"We're _ doing _ something _ right now," _ Keith says, gesturing wide. _ Waiting _ counts as _ doing something _ in the Kogane handbook. As much as Keith doesn't like to do it either, it doesn't drive him up the wall the way it does Lance. Lance is going to scream.

"Guys," Hunk says warningly, tone more bored than anything else.

Keith sighs audibly.

Lance swats angrily at the branch of red buds hanging in front of his face. Keith _ knows _ being bored is worse than being tortured for him sometimes, and he is _ not _ being dramatic. It is That Bad. All he can focus on his how _ bored _ he is. Lance starts pacing again. He's only taken a few steps when he hears a slithering in the underbrush and glances down - 

The thorn-feathered vine slips around his ankle and tightens before Lance can so much as gasp, and then it _ yanks, _closing like a noose, and drags Lance into the bushes with a startled yelp.

He hits the ground so hard he looses his breath. The vine pulls him so swiftly that the branches and rocks between him and the main body of the plant tear at Lance in a confusing assault of bumps and snags, wrenching his limbs painfully. It's a long, frightening moment before he has the sense to grab onto something. He snags a protruding root with both hands, and the force of the thing pulling on him is so strong that it almost yanks his arms or his leg off when he grabs ahold of his anchor.

The pain in his thigh his sharp and startling. The vine tightens its hold and tugs harder, snaking further up his leg. The pain in Lance's thigh multiplies, snatching his breath.

It has ahold of his left leg - the prosthetic one.

He can barely feel the vice-like grip around his ankle, but if it pulls any harder it's going to tear the whole prosthesis off, neves and muscle alike - if Lance's hands don't give out first. Lance watches in horror as the root his holding onto for dear life begins to peel out of the dirt inch by inch. He knows, subconsciously, that it's a carnivorous plant at the other end of this vine. The locals warned them about making too much noise while they were in the woods. Lance is an idiot. He was just drawing attention to their position. There was a reason the Paladins were the ones picking up the supplies. He gathers his breath into his lungs, but it just punches right back out of him in panic.

He was already wound so tightly before.

He can't breathe.

His arms are starting to shake, the prosthetic pulling, _ pulling, pulling. _

_ "Lance!" _

Keith bursts through the bushes and Lance's relief is like a flood washing away the blinding anxiety even as Keith falls on top of him, grasping his forearms. Lance still doesn't let go of the root, doesn't want to drag Keith along with him if this thing overpowers them.

"It's got - my leg!" Lance gasps stupidly.

"Which leg?" Keith pants.

"The - left - the fake one - "

"I'll have to disengage it - "

"No!"

"Lance - "

"I won't be able to walk," Lance says, his panic doubling up. That root gives a little. His prosthetic gives a little. He slides an inch further, despite Keith's heavy grip on him. "I-I can't -"

"Lance, I'll carry you. One of us will carry you."

"Just cut the vine! Keith - "

"It can't be cut! They _ told _ us that - "

"Just try! Please!!"

Keith makes a desperate, frustrated sound and looks up, peering through the dense foliage. He can see the vine curling, struggling, but not the mouth at the end of it. It's come a long way. Lance's whole body is shaking, his breath unsteady.

Hunk is a few seconds behind Keith, having had a more difficult time getting through.

"Hunk," Keith says, "Hold him."

"Yeah, I got him."

Keith lets go of him for just a second - and it's enough. The root gives out, despite it's best efforts, and Lance goes sliding again as the vine wins the game of tug-o-war. He tastes dirt, bile rising in the back of his throat, heart launching up with it. He can't even scream.

He doesn't go far.

Hunk lunges and grabs onto him before he disappears into the underbrush again, "I got you, buddy! Hang on, Lance. It's gonna be okay, man." Keith charges past them with his bayard drawn and sweeps to land what should have been a devastating blow to the length of vine trying to drag Lance away. Only the locals were right. The vine is impervious to being cut thanks to millennia of evolution, a lacquer armour encasing every thorny inch. But it doesn't have no sense of the danger.

The moment after Keith's blade strikes it, the entire vine quivers and contracts.

It doubles its effort to drag its meal in.

Lance cries out as it yanks at his leg - can feel the base of the prosthetic tear at his muscles, all his nerves burning. Keith swears and drops to his knees beside Lance. He cuts the flight suit, unworried in his haste as the blade grazes the fiber plastic of Lance's prosthetic, and closes both hands around Lance's thigh, just above his knee. He wrenches the limb counterclockwise. Lance jerks, and the prosthesis comes away from the base attached to his thigh with a hiss of pressure and a rush as it slides away uninhibited, out of view within a moment.

The silence left behind as it recedes is deafening aside from the Paladins' heavy breathing.

Every one of Lance's exhales is a sharp whimper, his entire body shuddering as he curls inward. Hunk's hold on his arms has relaxed into something comforting rather than desperate. He rubs Lance's shoulders as he kneels in front of him. He's saying something, but Lance can't hear it over the pounding of his heart and the throbbing in his leg and the way his breath breaks halfway into his lungs. His hand skates down, across the ground - shakes against his thigh, where his suit is torn - but he can't - it's gone -

"I'm sorry," Keith whispers, hands on Lance's ribs, a steady pressure where he voice is trembling, "I'm sorry, sweet heart."

Keith so rarely calls him anything other than _Lance_ \- endearing pet names is Lance's thing - and hearing _sweet heart_ in Keith's low, rough voice has more emotion packed into it than Lance can bear right now.

His next breath is a shaky sob, and Keith holds him even tighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We went from Big ADHD Mood to Instantaneous Panic Attack in .3 seconds! (Which is still a Big ADHD Mood, if we're being honest /sweats)


	7. easier to bear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober 2019: Day 7. Isolation

Being alone has never really bothered Keith.

Even when he was little, and his dad was alive, and Keith was loved and wanted  _ every moment, _ he would still sneak off to be on his own. He would crawl under the bed and lay there for hours playing with whatever toy he brought. He would roam the yard - and later the surrounding fields and hills - catching bugs or collecting rocks or following any trail he found, curious about what he would find at the end. He would hide in the hall closet when there was company, not wanting to be looked at, perfectly at peace sitting among heavy coats and listening to the lull of voices and Dad's rocky laughter in the other room.

Sometimes he would fall asleep, and his dad would come looking for him. Scoop him up, plop him down on the couch, cover him up, and sit beside him while Keith napped, his big hand rubbing Keith's back, humming that song, the fragments of which get stuck in Keith's throat even now, well into adulthood.

Lance has started humming it, having subconsciously picked it up from hearing Keith do it.

Normally, it's a source of comfort.

Keith would give anything to hear it right now.

The cell he's been shut into is so small, if Keith laid flat on the floor and stretched out, his arms and legs would be crowded against the walls. He doesn't even know who put him in here - the ambush itself is fuzzy. They got him good, that's for sure. But no one has been in to gloat or mock him, or torture him, or any of the other common staples of being abducted.

So Keith sits with his back in the corner, facing the door in silence, wondering when it's going to open again. He's not wondering what's going to happen when it does - he knows that much, has it planned out in advance depending on who it is opening the door.

If it's one of the unlucky bastards who locked him in here, Keith is going to throttle them.

If it's one of the others - if it's Lance - Keith is probably going to hug and kiss them respectively.

Being alone has never really bothered Keith.

But being isolated from any sort of human contact for what he imagines is going on several quintants is really starting to get to him. He's only had one meal. After he grabbed the arm that slid the tray in through the little hatch and slammed the man attached to it hard enough against the door that he lost consciousness, his captors stopped even opening the hatch.

Maybe Keith had been too hasty.

His first few hours in here weren't...great.

He has gotten so used to the quintessence bond that he shares with his Lion, that he shares with the other Paladins, that it was more than a little disturbing to wake up to utter silence. The bond isn't  _ gone. _ Keith can still feel it if he really focuses. It's just… quiet. Like hearing voices in another room, the low murmur barely audible. It's quiet, where normally it is alight with ideas, feelings, and energy - a current carried from one person to the next, bringing them all together as one.

It's the bond they use to form Voltron, engraved into them after years and years of use.

It has become background noise to their daily lives and made their relationships that much stronger because of the deep well of understanding that runs between them, seeking harmony at every moment, even when they have disagreements.

Now there's nothing.

It's just a silent connection.

Being alone has never really bothered Keith, but he can't take much more of this….

He misses Lance - misses the noisey comradery of the others - and not even being able to connect with him through the bond is heart-wrenching. He doesn't know whether it's the cell itself blocking his connection, or if his captors did something to him while he was unconscious. If it's distance. Or…. Keith doesn't dwell on the other option, though it's the main cause of his anxiety as he is forced to sit here and endure the silence he gets every time he reaches out. That maybe he isn't getting anything from the bond because the others aren't there to give him anything….

Keith thinks surely he would have  _ felt _ it if that were the case. He would  _ know. _

But the uncertainty is what's eating at him.

Thinking that Lance might not be there when he gets out of here - that something happened to him, and Keith didn't even  _ know  _ -

Keith's chest constricts around his fast beating heart, his throat closing painfully as his eyes burn. He tries furiously to blink the tears out of his eyes, but they well up, anyway, slipping down his cheeks. Keith presses his hands to his chest, sinks his forehead against his knees, and tries to breathe. He tries to recall Lance's scent through the way it clings to his clothes.

It's not enough. It only makes the longing in him worse.

If he could just reach out to them - if he could just  _ know _ \- this would be easier to bear.

Keith's breath shudders against his knees, warms his face. He curls his hands into fists and hums that song softly, under his breath, but it doesn't bring him any comfort.

\--

When the door does open, Keith is caught off guard.

He must have been dozing. Crying. His eyes are heavy and crusty, tear tracks drying on his face.

He hears the lock in the door beep and jumps as if he's been hit with a cattle prod, his legs shaking as he surges to his feet. Lightheadedness causes the room to spin. Keith braces his hand against the wall. He's not ready. Shit. He stumbles forward to be closer to the door the second it slides open, and his nerves are so utterly shot from the days of isolation and hunger and thinking that the others are dead and that he's  _ alone _ that Keith jumps again, heart hammering.

There's no one there.

Keith holds his breath, staring into the hall - realizes he's staring into the empty cell directly across from the one he's standing in, that it's door is wide open, too. For a second, Keith thinks it's a trick of some kind. Then he hears footsteps, and voices, and Lance, distracted, out of breath, answering and inquiry that Keith missed, "I don't know, Pidge, just check them all! Keith -"

Then several voices,  _ "Keith!" _

Then several dizzying, overpowering sensations, emotions, thoughts, and ideas, as the previously-silent quintessence bond is flooded with light.

Keith is still standing there in shock when Allura cautiously peeks into the cell.

Her smile when she sees him is radiant.

She calls over her shoulder, "He's here! Lance!" And she darts forward to pull Keith into a rib-crunching hug that forces a laugh out of him. He hugs her back, basking in the physical contact, in the peace and relief that pours through their bond, the way it saturates every inch of him. He even goes as far as nuzzling her neck to get her scent on him, the way he usually only does to Lance, and Allura laughs softly in surprise, allowing this brazen display of Galran affection.

"They didn't take very good care of you, did they?" she asks, her hands pressing against his back, "And they had the nerve to ask for a ransom! That's filthy of them. And to keep you in a cell like this -"

"Keith!"

"Oh man!"

"Thank goodness!"

The others crash into them all at once, squeezing Keith between them, talking over one another in their excitement. Lance works his way into the middle, shoving the others only half-playfully. He closes his hands around Keith's face, brings Keith close to his so they share every breath, and there's so much love and relief in those blue eyes that Keith has to close his own.

He relaxes gratefully into the communal embrace.

Being alone has never _bothered _Keith - but he would much rather have this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for reading and/or commenting! I cry about every single one of them; it's exciting to know people are still into this series (and still into klance. it is REASSURING to know i am not the only sucker out here still yellin' about these fools lmao)~
> 
> A headache has gotten the better of me today, but tomorrow i'll try to get caught up!


	8. a frustrated, wordless exclamation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober 2019: Day 8. Stab Wound

They're out on a date today - an  _ actual date, _ which is a rare treat! Being alone together without the others, planetside without any social or political obligations, the one and only mission objective to spend as much time basking in each others' presence as they can get away with in public. Keith hasn't let go of Lance's hand once since they entered the shopping district. Not because it's crowded and noisy and he's feeling overwhelmed, but just because he wants to.

That's fair. That's valid.

Because Lance hasn't stopped smiling once since he woke up this morning to a vase full of wildflowers in every shade of yellow, red, and blue sitting pretty on the nightstand.

The date isn't anything spectacular. It doesn't have to be. Lance is elated just getting to spend time with Keith, doing something that normal couples do. They browse through the shops at Lance's leisure, since he's the one interested in window shopping and just walking around, enjoying being  _ out _ . They talk easily, and lapse into comfortable silences, and laugh themselves stupid over the silliest things that they find browsing through the stores of alien wares.

The downside is that people recognize them. Sometimes at once, sometimes gradually. Keith and Lance try to keep a low profile, not wanting to draw the attention of a huge crowd, but they inevitably sign a few autographs, and end up leaving certain shops with gifts they didn't necessarily want but were too polite to refuse.

When they sneak off to a quiet bench to rest and regroup, Keith and Lance both notice they're being followed. The kid isn't exactly being subtle about it. It's a teenager who keeps darting behind things if one of them so much as turns their head in his direction.

"Think he wants something?" Keith asks under his breath as they take a seat on a bench near one of the indoor water fountains.

Lance makes a noncommittal noise and shrugs, pretending to rummage in one of their bags. It's cooler here. Nice and quiet. Sort of separated from the hustle and bustle. That kid is lurking behind a nearby pillar, and apparently he's not alone - there are three more teens with him, and by the way they're all arguing with each other, Lance is willing to bet they don't want autographs, and they're too obvious to be a genuine threat.

"We're not about to be victims of a hate crime, are we?" Keith asks dully.

Lance laughs out loud at that. The sound of it startles their would-be stalkers into silence.

"I seriously doubt it," Lance says, "This isn't Earth."

Keith is smirking.

He sighs, though, looking at the bags. "What are we gonna do with all this stuff, Lance?"

"I don't know. Maybe those kids will try to rob us and we can just sort of -" He throws his hands up dramatically. " _ 'Oh, no! Come back! That's my… whatever the hell this stuff is…!' _ And just sort of let them take everything. It would probably up their street cred."

Keith snorts, his shoulders shaking.

"I don't know if we should be contributing to the delinquency around here," he says, as if he wasn't a delinquent himself as a preteen. Keith lifts his chin, looking over Lance's shoulder. "Here he comes."

Lance turns and, sure enough, the kid is approaching their bench with both sets of his alien arms stuffed into his multiple coat pockets and his narrow shoulders up around his ears, looking like he might balk at the slightly noise. His buddies are poking their noses around the corner and whispering.

Because Lance is the least intimidating of the two, he gets to his feet once the kid is closer and flashes a friendly smile that almost has the kid turning tail, "Hey there! Can I help you with something?"

The kid stops right in front of him.

He's breathing awfully hard.

Is he going to blurt something out -?

Oh.

The kid lunges forward, striking out. Lance's hand darts out to meet him, vicing around one of the kid's wrists - and not a moment too soon. The blade in the kid's hand is shaking furiously, and it's shaped like the cut-out silhouette of a flame - widening as it goes toward the hilt - but that does not detract from the fact that it would have slid cleanly into Lance's gut if he hadn't caught it. It's sharp, the fine edge flickers in the light as it quivers.

Lance looks at the dagger, bewildered, then looks at the kid,  _ bewildered. _ His grey eyes have gone saucer-wide, threatening to pop out of the sockets, and his mouth is gaping open in surprise and fear. 

"Excuse me!?" Lance snaps. Behind him, Keith sifts on the bench. "What the quiznak -"

"It was - a dare!" the kid yells, suddenly frantic. He tries to twist away but Lance holds him firmly, not in the mood for the theatrics. "It was a dare! Just a stupid dare! It was - it was their -  _ their _ idea! I didn't -"

He throws his buddies under the bus in a heartbeat, and when Lance looks up they are all scrambling away, leaving the fall guy behind. The kid is shaking even harder now. Lance half sighs, half groans.

"Don't stab people!" he says, plucking the dagger out of the kid's weak grip, "It's dangerous."

"N-n-no! I-I mean, yes sir! Sorry! I'm so sorry!"

He looks ready to tear his arm off just to get away. Lance isn't even holding him that hard, didn't think he was being that stern. The kid looks about ready to faint on the spot when Keith steps up beside Lance and lifts a second dagger, identical to the first. Keith doesn't even say anything. The kid's knees like, literally sink an inch, his legs barely supporting his weight at this point as his gaze darts to the knife and then down.

He's stammering again, "I am s-so  _ so sorry." _

Lance feels bad, and lets him go.

The kid falls back gasping apologies, trips over himself in his haste to turn around, and runs as fast as his wobbly legs can carry him. Lance turns his bewildered look on Keith, splays his hands to further illustrate how  _ biz _ arre this altercation was. Keith is looking down, staring at his leg, and Lance follows his gaze.

His pant leg is soaked.

The fabric is black, so it takes Lance a moment to notice, and a moment longer to register what he's seeing. He jolts. Throws his hands.

"Keith, you're  _ bleeding!" _

"Lance -"

"He  _ stabbed _ you!?"

"The second dagger flew out of his other hand when you grabbed his wrist and it just sort of…" He gestures lamely. "I wasn't expecting it."

"Ohmygod.  _ I  _ stabbed you!?"

"...No. Lance, it's fine -"

Lance is too agitated to listen. Keith's protestations fall on deaf ears as Lance drags his boyfriend and their annoying bags off to the nearest restroom, after tying one of the shirts they were gifted around Keith's calf to stop him from leaving a trail of blood behind. The shirt has too many arms, and neither of them would have worn it, anyway.

The restroom is mercifully empty, and Keith pulls himself up to sit on the counter by the sink furthest from the door at Lance's request. He insists that it's not bad, that he's fine. Lance fusses with his pant leg, shimmying it up toward his knee and revealing the deep cut in the meat of his calf. It's long because of the odd shape of the blade, but it's not actually deep.

Any lower and it would have struck his boot and glanced off.

Of course this is Keith's luck.

Getting stabbed on their date is  _ mundane _ compared to some of the other dates they've had.

Lance glumly thinks, as he cleans Keith's wound with a fold of damp paper towels, that maybe they shouldn't bother trying anymore. Something  _ always _ ruins it.

Once the bleeding stops, Lance shreds the poor shirt into makeshift bandages and wraps Keith's leg as best as he can with them. At the very least, it will be fine until they get back to the Castle. It's not really deep enough to warrant a stint in the healing pod, but there is antiseptic in the med bay, and proper bandages, and pain medicine, and Lance had a lot of plans for today and he's not upset that they're going to waste but he  _ is _ upset that this  _ always happens _ and -

Keith reaches down, hands carefully circling Lance's wrists and holding them still.

He was trying to scrub the blood out of Keith's pant leg, and just making a bigger mess. He realizes this with heat flooding his eyes, drawing in a steadying breath. He rests his hands on Keith's leg and the sink beside him, the towels curled into his fist. He doesn't look up, his jaw wired into a tight frown.

"Lance." There's a gentle laugh in Keith's voice, "It's fine. I don't think anyone is going to notice if my black jeans are a little more black in one place."

Lance exhales the breath he was holding.

"My leg feels better now," Keith says, "Do you want to get outta here?"

"Yeah," Lance manages around the knot in his throat. He straightens out Keith's pants, tugging the fabric down over his boot. "Yeah. We can go home -"

Keith stills his hands again, more firmly this time.

"I meant to get dinner. Or - just somewhere else. It's still early. You want to go home…?"

Lance doesn't  _ want _ to go home, but he also doesn't  _ want _ to make Keith walk around on a hurt leg, and he doesn't want to _ say _ that, he's just feeling selfish and annoyed right now so he just makes a noise - a huff, a frustrated, wordless exclamation - and throws his hands because he is stupidly on the verge of tears over this.

He wants  _ one thing _ and it's to  _ be with Keith _ but, "It would be nice to have  _ one date _ where something weird or crazy doesn't happen…"

Lance mumbles this with his head down, rubbing the seam of Keith's jeans between his fingers, restless even with Keith holding his hands.

"Yeah," Keith agrees, just as quiet. There's a small smile on his face when Lance glances up; fond, despite the fact that he was just not-so-viciously stabbed. "I kind of like the crazy parts too, though. It gives us a chance to appreciate moments like this."

"Like what?" Lance asks, glancing around. Giving rough first aid in a public restroom is definitely not what he considers a  _ moment. _

Keith swings his legs out, hooks his heels behind Lance's knees, and Lance staggers forward until he is tucked between Keith's open legs, hands splayed against his thighs. Keith clasps his broad hands together at the small of Lance's back and leans down to rub his cheek against Lance's neck. Lance chuckles, tilting his head to give him better access.

"Wow," he says, "Look at you being smooth."

"It's date night," Keith answers, kissing his neck. It's not heated, just an affection press against Lance's pulse.

Lance curls his fingers into the belt loops at Keith's waist.

"Are you sure it doesn't hurt…?"

"Lance, do you seriously think it hurts enough that I don't want to finish our date?"

Lance hums rather than answering, embarrassed that he made a big deal but if something so small, and Keith's chuckle rumbles in his own chest before he pushes Lance back and slides down from the counter. He scoops up their bags with one hand and takes Lance's with the other, and leads him to the exit.

"C'mon, let's get something to eat."

"Okay," Lance says, struggling to keep his smile at bay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yesterday conspired against me, but I have a 3 day weekend ahead of me so! Cross your fingers for me lmao


	9. the black swallowing the blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober 2019: Day 9/10. Shackled/Unconscious

Keith comes to with his nose in the dirt, and the scent of Lance's blood heavy in the back of his throat. That brings him to his senses a lot quicker than anything else would. Keith jerks his head up, tries to move, and his limbs lock together and leave him struggling. His hands are bound behind his back, his ankles together. There is the clink and rattle of metal chains.

Keith huffs out a breath that disturbs the dirt in front of his face and tries not to panic. Breathes in. Breathes out. _ Patience yields focus. _ He takes stock. He's sore, but he's not seriously injured. He's tied up, but there's no one guarding him. They're in a cave, so the rich scent of dirt is damp and somewhat old, and he can hear, distantly, the murmur of voices and the crackle of a fire. The only other prominent scent in the cave with him is Lance's - his coconut body lotion, his sweat - his blood. His senses are at their peek right now because his cycle is at its lowest point and his body is honed to Lance exclusively.

Keith twists his body, peering through the dimness.

There's no light source, but that doesn't hinder Keith.

He spots Lance just a few feet away from him, curled on his side. His back is to Keith, and he can see that Lance is bound up the same way as he is. What he can't see is the source of the blood. Lance's paladin armour doesn't look like it's been breached from this angle.

Every one of Keith's inhales is saturated with the iron tang of Lance's blood, so he knows he's not mistaken. It makes his fangs prick his mouth, and his adrenaline rush.

"Lance," he whispers, testing the way it echoes in the cave. It's not a large space, so his voice is almost muffled in it. He raises it a bit, nervous when he doesn't get an answer, "Lance!"

Lance doesn't even stir, or murmur, or turn in his direction.

Keith struggles against his bonds again, twisting, testing them. He assumes his restrains are the same as Lance's. The chain is weakest at the point where it meets the cuffs. If he can exert enough pressure - and he _ can _ \- they'll break. He strains his muscles, despite the way his shoulder throbs at the harsh angle. He relaxes, slows his breathing, tries again - _ pulls _ his wrist apart across the middle of his back, feels the metal biting into his wrists, feels it just barely give.

Across from him, Lance makes a tiny noise, a moan of pain, and rolls his head.

The slight motions stirs the air, sharpens the scent of Lance's blood.

Keith inhales, letting it settle like fury in his lungs, in his chest, and wrenches his arms.

The chain shatters apart. It makes a bright clinking noise as a few pieces go flying and strike the walls of the cave and Keith pauses, holding his breath, only long enough to confirm that their captors either didn't hear it or ignored it. He sits up, makes quicker work of the chains around his ankles despite his bleeding wrists, trailing the cuffs, and he runs to the short distance to Lance.

"Lance," he says softly, easing him over.

He finds the source of blood at once: there's a cut across Lance's forehead that's still fresh enough to be bleeding freely. Keith touches it gently and feels a lump forming beneath the bruising flesh. Lance flinches, makes another faint sound, and Keith withdraws his hand.

"Hey," he murmurs, "Lance. Are you with me?"

He brushes his knuckles across Lance's cheek, cups his throat. Feels his pulse beat beneath his palm and lets that sensation ease the weight of anxiety off his shoulders.

Lance groans and blinks his eyes open.

They're unfocused, the black swallowing the blue.

"Kei… Keith?"

"It's me. It's gonna be okay. I'm gonna get us outta here, just hang on."

Lance nods slowly, winces. He realizes he's tied up, and allows Keith to maneuver him around, stays still while Keith wrenches the chain free from his wrists without jostling his arms too badly and then swiftly moves on to his legs. Lance groans as he sits up, palm pressed to his forehead, eyes squeezed shit. Keith holds onto him. He doesn't have to. But he reaches out without thinking, wanting to be close, wanting to _ protect, _and Lance doesn't protest the extra support.

He seems dizzy, and sways a little.

"Think I've got a concussion," he admits.

"Yeah, I think you do, too," Keith agrees under his breath, letting a smile tug up his lips. "Think you can stay behind me?"

"Pretty sure I could keep up with you in my sleep, mullet."

"Good to hear."

A genuine chuckle slips out of Keith at that - that defiant smirk on Lance's face, confident in the face of their precarious situation. Keith is so grateful. He loves Lance so much.

He helps Lance to his feet, steadies him - the way Lance is always steadying _ him. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would advise anyone thinking about growing a human child in their guts to really really think before committing to it bc I am tired and nauseous ALL THE TIME NOW and it really messes with my already inhibited ability to sit down and focus on a task. So I am allowed to combine prompts if I can't think of anything for them to be solo!
> 
> Thank u for your time and attention, I love you guys!


	10. it's not happening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober 2019: Day 11. Stitches

"C'mon, babe."

"It's not happening, Lance."

"Why not?"

"You know why not."

The sound Lance makes is so very close to a whine that it should be embarrassing. He is twenty-five years old. He doesn't pout and whine when he doesn't get his way… except maybe he does, sometimes, in the sheltered privacy of their bedroom, where only Keith will judge him for acting like a child but will usually indulge him anyway. This evening is an outlier.

As Keith said,  _ It's not happening, _ and Lance  _ does _ know why not.

That doesn't mean he has to like it.

He huffs around some more on the bed, finally settling, resting the back of his right hand on the pillow beside him and glaring at it. The stitches are ruby red against his palm, the skin around the deep cut all swollen and irritated. It itches. And it burns. And it's throbbing all the way from his wrist to the tips of his fingers in a soft and yet unbearable copy of his heartbeat.

It's all he can focus on, and Keith won't distract him from it. Lance is considering calling it meanness.

"Why do they have to recalibrate all the healing pods at once, huh?" Lance complains. He fails at resisting the urge to move his hand so much as an inch. His hand twitches and shifts and flexes, and he grits through the pain. "Surely that's like, a violation of safety protocol or something. What if there's an emergency and someone is dying!?"

"You're not dying, Lance."

Keith's voice is deep with affection when he says it. He's sitting on the edge of the bed with some ointment for the pain and a roll of bandages in his hands, waiting for Lance to get his shit together and cooperate. Lance feels even more childish in the face of Keith's patience. He still sighs heavily and doesn't budge, staring at his stupid hand and his stupid stitches that throb painfully with every tiny movement.

Pushing out a sigh of his own, Keith sets the bandages and ointment down and crawls forward on the bed. He's careful not to jostle Lance's arm; plants his elbows on either side of Lance's ribs, settles his weight. Lance curls round him instinctively, like a flower folding shut after the morning dew.

"You're a brat, you know that," Keith murmurs.

Lance bites his lip to stop himself from grinning - just because he  _ is _ going to get what he wants doesn't mean he has to be smug about it. 

"So?" he asks.

The pain in his hand is easier to not think about when he's kissing Keith, when he can focus on all the sensations that accompany it as they build steadily from slow and soft to something heated. He is intimate with the shape of Keith's teeth, and yet he never gets tired of exploring them. The delicious points of his canines, the asymmetrical dip between two of his right molars, the way one of his incisors is slightly crooked in his jaw. How they feel pulling at his lip, grazing his throat, and the shock that pressure sends to the pit of his stomach.

Lance catches Keith's quiet moans in his own mouth, the thrill of his small gasps. He gets caught himself on the electric sensation that follows Keith's hands when they decide to wander, soothing down his sides.

Keith's chest against his, his heavy breath.

The heat of his tongue.

Lance folds his arms around Keith's shoulders just to have him closer. Moves his right hand and plants it at the back of Keith's neck, fingers curled into the loose braid, where the pressure throbs into his wrist, making his fingers numb, and Keith's hair rubs against the raw wound in his palm.

Lance hisses and jerks his hand away.

Keith leans back, frowning.

_ "That's  _ why it's not happening, Lance," he says, starting to push himself up.

"Noooo." Lance tries to hold him in place with one uninjured hand and one demanding elbow, and makes such a valiant effort that Keith stops and sighs. "Keith, it's fine, I don't need both hands to make out! I don't even need either of my hands if you want to -"

_ "Lance." _

Keith catches his right wrist. Lance is gesturing with it, wincing, not thinking anything about it. His stitches pulse and itch and burn, pulled taut when he flexes his fingers as if they're straining to bust open.

Lance pulls in a small, shuddering breath and quiets.

"You'll just forget and move it again," Keith says, holding his hand steady. He brings Lance's palm up, presses his lips into his too-warm skin alongside the stitches below his thumb. The stitches scratch lightly against his cheek, but he keeps it there.

"Not if you hold it," Lance pouts.

"Lance, I'm not holding your injured hand up out of the way because you have no impulse control," Keith says it fondly, as if  _ he _ has any impulse control to speak of in the heat of battle, and Lance feels himself blush. Softer, Keith adds, "I don't wanna make out when you're hurting. It's supposed to feel good."

"But it  _ does." _

"It does because it's distracting you from the pain. That's not the same."

Lance groans and turns his head away, trying to avoid Keith's eyes. He kicks out his legs.

"Why are you the sweetest guy in the universe?" he asks, bringing his other hand up to squash Keith's face between them.

Keith's shoulders shrug up and he hums an  _ I don't know _ as he turns to kiss Lance's other palm. He cups his hands around the back of Lance's and holds them there, closing his eyes. He breathes out, content to be close. Lance is greedy. He wants all of Keith, all the time. But he's more than happy with the soft affection, too.

And then Keith spoils it by countering Lance's question with one of his own, "Why did you put the sharp knives in the sink along with the rest of the cutlery when you were rinsing the dishes?"

Lance's indignation flares to the surface.

"I was  _ trying _ to hurry because  _ someone  _ said he wanted to make out this evening!"

"Patience yields focus," Keith says.

"Get off me! Get off!"

Keith's laughter is sharp and bright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another soft one! Every time I think I have downtime... I suddenly don't! The only time I get to sit down and actually write is at work, ironically enough. 😅 Thank you guys for your patience and support! These will get whumpy again at some point I swear.


	11. seeking equilibrium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober 2019: Day 12. "Don't move!"

The only reason Keith's not panicking is because Lance is holding his hand.

The angle is awkward, but they're close enough to make it work. The building they were searching collapsed, trapping both of them beneath piles of rubble that, miraculously, didn't kill them. It was a trap. And a stupid one. But they're both alive and that's what matters. Their comms are working with only a prickle of interference, so the others know where they are and what their situation is - but help is not coming hastily.

The others still have their mission objective. And even if they could drop it, extraction is going to be difficult because of the precarious way the building has settled. Keith can see one sliver of light breaching the rubble and what little he is able to make out of his surroundings does not raise his spirits any.

It doesn't help that he is face-down on the ground, only able to turn his head.

His suit beeps again.

It's taken the brunt of the damage - Keith doesn't even have any broken bones, just bruises - but the pressure put on his chest plate by the solid stone pillar resting on top of him is forcing it to its breaking point. Lance's suit beeps in tandem with his. Keith's head is turned toward him (because why would he look at anything else right now), so he sees the orange symbol flash on the inside of Lance's helmet screen.

It's like a heartbeat, so Keith has been focusing on it. But the quicker it gets, the less time they have.

The anxiousness Keith feels building up in his chest again isn't for himself.

"Take a deep breath, man," Lance says, voice so soft through their private channel that it's like he's whispering it right into Keith's ear, "Squeeze my hand. It's gonna be fine."

Keith does as he says.

Breaths, slow, steady, counts it in and lets it out.

He squeezes Lance's hand.

Lance is surprisingly calm in this situation. Probably because he can sense Keith panicking, and they're good at that - deflecting the others intense emotions. When one of them is freaking out, the other steadies. That's the natural rhythm that guides their bond, seeking equilibrium, and Keith is grateful for it.

He's grateful for  _ Lance. _

He loves Lance  _ so much. _

Keith makes a small noise. Starts to finally spill the words out after keeping them bottled up for so long.

Lance's head turns toward him, just a fraction.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Keith days, his voice choked. He squeezes Lance's hand even harder. "I… I gotta get us outta here."

"The others will come get us," Lance says at once. He's still calm, but he's firm now. "Just relax, okay? I'm right here with you."

"I know…"

Lance's suit beeps. That tiny flash of orange in the corner. Keith faulters his response because he's holding his breath. His suit doesn't beep. They're out of sync. His suit hasn't magically restored itself, which means the damage to Lance's is getting worse.

Keith doesn't say anything.

He lets go of Lance's hand and starts to move, to push himself up with his palms flat and his knees digging into the floor. He strains against the stone weighing him down and hears the building's answering groan as it shifts minutely, and shifts everything around them. Dust and debris snow down in a hushed clatter.

Lance latches onto his hand again, tightly, and Keith loses his meager leverage.

"Keith! Don't move! What's the matter with you!?"

"Your suit is breaking down faster than mine!"

Keith almost can't believe how desperate his own voice is as the words tear from his throat.

Lance is bewildered. "What!?"

"They were beeping together," Keith says, "The alarm. The pressure alarm. And now yours is beeping more often! It's going to crack soon, if it hasn't already!"

Keith's suit beeps again, finally, and to prove his point Lance's sounds off half a moment after it.

"I…" Lance is fumbling now. He still doesn't let go of Keith's hand, and the sound of Keith's own breathing is harsh in his ears. "That doesn't mean it's going to crack immediately. Keith, it's fine. The others will get to us soon. The best thing we can do right now is not move around and stay calm for each other."

"I can lift it enough for you to squeeze you if you'll  _ let me, _ Lance!"

"One!" Lance says, suddenly furious, squeezing Keith's hand so hard his knuckles pop, "I am  _ not leaving you. _ Even if I could get out from under this thing, I wouldn't have anywhere else to go because I can't move any of the rubble by myself. I couldn't get you out! Not all of us have super crazy Galra strength!

"And two! We're not even under the same piece, Keith! Yours is broke off here, and the one pinning me is going this way! There an enormous chunk of ceiling crossways over both of them. It's what's exerting most of the force! So even if you can lift that one, this one will probably slip and crush me twice as fast.

"Why do you think I was telling you not to move, Keith!? It wasn't a masochistic bid to spend some quality time together!! I was scared trying to get out would just make it worse and kill one or us both!"

He doesn't even let go of Keith in order to gesture erratically - or as erratically as he can in the limited space. He just yanks Keith's hand along with his own. It's how Keith registers that Lance's whole body is shaking, and he finally gets a glimpse of it through their bond. Lance  _ is _ afraid. He's just trying not to show it because Keith was losing it first.

Keith quiets, processing this. Lance is pinned on his back, so he has a wider view of their situation.

And he trusts Lance.

He should have listened.

"I'm sorry," Keith says, feeling choked again.

Lance's suit beeps in answer. Lance himself is breathing, trying to calm down.

"Lance…"

"It's okay…"

Lance sounds like he's crying.

He's broken down before his suit had the chance, and Keith's heart wrenches painfully. He almost struggles to get up again before he remembers and, with a great effort, holds himself still while he listens to Lance's sniffling and his short, huffing breaths.

"You were right and I should have listened to you," Keith says softly, "And I shouldn't have put all this on you. I'm sorry, Lance. It's gonna be fine. The others are gonna be here soon, and I'm gonna give you the biggest hug when we get outta here."

Lance lets out a wet laugh at that.

Some of his composure returns, and he's silent for a few seconds before he blurts out, "My leg hurts."

Keith tries not to let his panic overtake him again.

"Which leg?"

"The left one," Lance groans, "I think it crushed the prosthetic. All I can feel is this stinging pressure in my thigh. That's why the suit is beeping. My leg plate cracked a couple of minutes ago. I felt it pop."

"Oh," Keith says.

"Yeah," Lance says. His breathing has steadied somewhere. He turns his head, and Keith sees the flash of his slight smile through the visor. "So stop freaking out about it, okay?"

"Okay," Keith agrees to try, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slams down glass* Another!


	12. that frightening high

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober 2019: Day 13. Adrenaline

* * *

Unfortunately, Lance's body occasionally interprets excitement as anxiety. That's the backlash of having chronic panic attacks - the rush of adrenaline is the same for both. The restlessness that shakes through his limbs, his heart kicking up into a faster rhythm; the way he is  _ aware _ of every little thing happening around him, his senses stretched to their limits.

This usually happens before a battle or a big mission, so the mix of emotions is perfectly normal.

It's in the thick of it that he's able to calm himself. He needs and clear head and steady hands in order to shoot, and if he lets that anxiety crawling heedlessly up his spine take over, the consequences that might have for his team are unthinkable.

What adrenaline does to him is nothing compared to what it does to Keith.

Lance sees that tell-tale flash of yellow, and all of his attention is diverted at once. He hears Pidge rattle off how much time they have left before they need to be at their rendezvous point and grunts a short affirmative as he dodges a blow from the machete-like weapon the Galran soldier is brandishing inelegantly at him.

Keith doesn't respond because his helmet is on the ground several feet away from him.

The black plating is cracked and the screen is shattered.

Lance catches a glimpse of the blood matting Keith's black hair, ribboning down the side of his face, but a glimpse is all he gets before he has to turn away. The Galra he's fighting roars his irritation when Lance sidesteps another blow. His rage makes him careless, so Lance dodges again rather than engaging him directly and waits for an opening.

It comes only a moment later.

Lance swings his broadsword up and catches the underside of the machete blade as it comes down, where it meets the hilt, and he twists the weapon out of his opponent's hands. It sails across the room. The Galran's yellow eyes follow it's wide arch. And Lance brings weapon up again within the same motion, shifting the blade to a blaster.

He fires point blank into the Galran's face. 

The brute staggers back, smoking roiling from charred fur, and topples over with a  _ thud _ that shudders the ground under Lance's feet. The blaster is set to stun, so it should keep him down for a while.

Lance rounds on Keith, where he's still fighting with the other soldier.

His heart drops into his stomach when he spots the black bayard on the floor in front of him. It only starts beating again when he sees the scimitar the Galran soldier was wielding has also been discarded, but it does a funny little lurch inside of him when he sees why. He doesn't know how he missed the snarling before.

Keith and the other Galran are tearing at each other with their bare hands, rolling on the ground together, each trying to get leverage. Keith is small, but that doesn't make it easy for the other Galra overpower him. He more than holds his own against his enormous opponent. Lance can see the blood smattering the ground that only doubles as they both thrash, and has no idea who it belongs to.

Pidge's voice comes through his comm,  _ "Lance, where are you? The clock is ticking here." _

"Just give us a minute!" Lance snaps, then mutes them and charges forward, "Keith!"

The sound of his voice has Keith's head spinning toward him, and Lance sees it - the Galra yellow of his eyes, the red licking at his pupils. The only reason he looked is because it was  _ Lance. _ The momentary distraction allows the Galran soldier to surge upward and knock Keith to the ground, and he keeps him pinned there by the throat.

Now that he knows for certain that he won't miss and hit Keith, Lance cranks the amperage up on his blaster and fires. The blast is powerful enough to knock the Galra off of Keith - and several feet.

He doesn't get up again.

Keith does.

He's on his feet in a heartbeat, eyes still on his opponent even though he isn't moving. He only looks away when Lance touches his elbow, and then he yanks his arm out of Lance's grip, whirling to face him.

_ "Why did you do that?" _ he snarls, fangs bared.

Lance is less alarmed by the aggression and more so that Keith's teeth are bloodied. That Keith has blood in his mouth that might not be his own (that might not be  _ Lance's;  _ and that's an odd bolt of jealousy that he does not have time to unpack right now).

He reaches out to take Keith's arm again, holds it even when Keith attempts to pull away.

"Keith," he says firmly, "We have to go."

_ "What?" _

"Pidge and the others are waiting for us. We have about six dobashes to get to the rendezvous point. We have to go - now."

The wait while this sinks in is agonizing. Keith pants for breath, clenches and unclenches his fists, adrenaline still pumping. It shuts off every one of his pain receptors. It dials his fight or flight instinct over to FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT. He can't even see how mangled he is. Lance is surprised he's even standing. His black armour has been gouges and rent by enormous claws, his undersuit shredded, the white parts streaked with red. His hair is wild and his cheeks are flushed.

His eyes are still glowing yellow, but the red color is receding, giving way to calm violet.

Some of the tension goes out of him.

His expression slackens up.

"Keith?" Lance asks.

"I-I - "

This is still relatively new: Keith's Galra genes flooding his system and catching him off guard.

Lance tugs at his arm. He hopes they can get back to their Lions and finish this thing before the pain really wakes up. He's going to need a few hours in the healing pod, and he won't go quietly.

"Come on," Lance says.

"I - "

"It's okay,  _ cariño, _ it's just me. Let's get out of here, alright? Will you walk with me?"

Keith nods mutely, shell-shocked as he comes down from that frightening high. His hand is shaking when Lance moves his grip down. He laces their fingers together, holds him steady for a moment. He lets Pidge and the others know that they're on their way out and he hurries Keith along as quickly as he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I refuse to proofread any of these I'm just shooting them out as I get them done


	13. he can only endure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober 2019: Day 14. Tear-stained

Keith is aware that Lance is crying.

That's about all he's aware of, other than the numbing pain pulsing in little bursts throughout his body. It roots through his nerves. It borrows into his muscles. It hooks into every shallow breath he takes, until every inch of him is silently screaming. Keith doesn't make sound. He can't move. It hurts too much to move, and he feels weighed down with wet concrete - impossibly heavy, the pressure increasing moment by moment.

Lance's hands cupping his face are gentle, though.

They're soft, and warm with the cinnamon-apple scent of his hand lotion and the leather of his gloves.

Keith bought him that lotion a few weeks ago. Lance had been complaining that he wanted a  _ sugary _ smell and was begrudgingly using the plethora of other lotions that were already crowding their designated cabinet. Keith has gone to the space mall on his own, found the shop where Lance usually buys his body products, and drove the shopkeeper crazy sniffing every lotion that they had until he found a sugary one that he could tolerate, that he thought Lance would like.

He's "fussy about smells".

He's really only fussy about them as they correlate to Lance, because Lance is his mate, body and soul, and Keith loves him exactly as he is.

He just wants Lance to be happy.

That's why he can't bear to see him crying now, even though there's nothing Keith can do about it. The pain is encroaching on all of his senses. It's even starting to be painful where Lance is holding him so gently, fingers caressing his cheeks, touching the flutter of his pulse in his neck, brushing his hair aside.

Lance slinks an arm around his chest and pulls Keith up against him so he's cradled in his arms. He bends to put his face against Keith's, and he cries even harder, holds Keith tighter, unaware of how badly it hurts him. Keith can feel tears that aren't his wetting his eyelashes, slipping down his cheeks, just a hint of salt against the tip of his tongue.

He can feel the convulsion of a sob, one after another, as they wrack Lance's body and then his own.

Keith wants to lift his hands, wants to reach out and hold Lance back and show him that it's going to be okay, that he doesn't need to cry like this. He wants go hold Lance's hand. Wants to kiss his face. But it's taking all of his strength just to keep his eyes open, and his breath going, and he is fighting a losing battle.

He doesn't know what kind of canon blast they hit him with, but he would take the full brunt of it again as long as Lance and the others are safe.

Black is okay.

Her interior lights are dim, the light a violet halo around Lance's head as he remains bowed over Keith, sobbing against his neck. She rumbles against the back of Keith's consciousness, sweeps too and fro, pining for him as strongly as Lance is, doing what she can to ease his pain. For once, it isn't working. Keith's whole body is burning, and he can only endure it for so long.

"Lance!"

Someone else has entered the cockpit, and Keith would recognize Allura's melodic voice anywhere. Part of him hopes she will pull Lance away and comfort him, and part of him wants her to leave because the moment she says his name, Lance lifts his head, and then Keith has to hear how wrecked his voice is, broken and panicked as he struggles to speak through his tears,

"Al-Allura, I - I don't know what to do, he - he won't- he won't - answer me - I can't get him to talk to me -"

He breaks off into a heavy sob, his whole body crumbling under the weight of it. More tears drops onto Keith's cheeks, and he never wants to see Lance look like this again. So broken and sad. So completely and utterly beside himself with grief.

That's Keith's fault.

He's the one that can't push past the pain and make his body move. He's the one who can't get his voice to work.

Every breath is an agony - but it does not compare to this in any way.

"He's got his eyes - open and he's l-looking at me and I kn-know he's in -in there but I can't- I don't know what's wrong, I can't get him to -"

"Lance," Allura says gently, placing a hand on his shoulder, "Let me see him."

Lance struggles to comply. Keith feels the way his arms tighten around Keith's chest, the way he shakes as he slowly loosens them and eases Keith away from the intimate press of his body. His hands don't leave Keith completely, but the loss is profound. Keith hadn't realized what a comfort it was just to have Lance close to him until it is gone, and all the tiny pain that were eating him up rush over him anew.

His breath quickens, just a fraction.

His hand twitches.

Lance latches onto it, clutching him tightly. His blue eyes are so bright and swimming with tears. His cheeks are ruddy and wet and his hair is mussed. That's the last thing Keith is going to see before he dies and he can't even be mad about it.

Then Allura is placing a hand on his chest. That heavy, concrete feeling recedes, a warmth blooming and spreading in its place. He registers the glow a moment after, pink and gold, their shared quintessence, as Allura works her magic. She purges every inch of him. She washes all that pain away and leaves onto a dull ache behind to remind him of what almost was.

It happens in one sudden rush from his chest to his head and down to his toes.

It happens so quickly that Keith's lungs lock for a moment, his body rigid.

Then he's gasping, drawing in a deep breath.

Allura removes her hand, smiling brighter than the newest star in the galaxy as she strokes his hair back from his face. And then Lance is collapsing on top of him, sobbing anew, this time babbling with relief as Keith wearily lifts his shaking arms to rest his hands on any part of Lance that he can reach.

Keith shifts under Lance's weight, and loves the way it leaves him breathless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hurt my feelings and now I'm going to bed!


	14. a soft affirmative

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober 2019: Day 24. Secret Injury

Keith sort of wanted his return to be a surprise.

He's been out on a mission with the Blades for a couple of movements, and they managed to cut it short so he's home much earlier than planned. He messaged the Castle to let Coran know when he'd be arriving, but he hasn't messaged Lance yet. They're not due for a video chat until later in the evening and Keith is hoping he can make it back in person before Lance starts to get suspicious about Keith being late for it.

Keith doesn't even bother changing out of his senior Blade uniform. The second Kolivan dismisses him, Keith packs his bag, runs to the hanger where Black is, and makes it home in record time. He navigates the Castle's hallways and elevators on autopilot, glancing at his comm the whole time. He's late. He's missed their scheduled call time by about five dobashes.

That's not too bad.

But Lance will be getting impatient.

Keith runs the rest of the way, and then has to stand outside their bedroom and catch his breath before he can even open the door.

That's when he really becomes aware of the sharp, painful throb in his left ribs.

He took a hard fall earlier and thought nothing of it. Keith has broken ribs before, and he knew it wasn't that bad - bruised, maybe, at the worst, but definitely not broken. He still doesn't think, after gingerly feeling out the ribs in question, that anything is broken. It's just beginning to swell and hurt in earnest because of the weight of his bag on his shoulder and the careless way he's been moving around, and even his gentle probing makes him wince.

Keith stands outside the door, frowning and holding his ribs. He really doesn't want to go into a healing pod right now… It'll take too long.

He glances at his comm.

He thinks about Lance, and how much he missed him.

Yeah, it can wait.

Steeling himself with a deep breath, wincing when it hitches and quickly straightening out his expression, Keith swipes his hand over the access panel and steps in. Left to his own devices, Lance has let the room get away from him a little bit; the shoes in the alcove have been kicked off into a haphazard pile rather than a neat row, and there are clothes across the desk chair and things stacked on the desk itself.

Lance is sprawled out on the bed wearing red shorts and a tank top, with one foot on the floor and the tablet propped against his stomach.

He glances up when the door opens.

And then launches up, elated, tossing the tablet. His smile is the brightest thing in the universe - exactly what Keith was anticipating and  _ so worth it. _

"Oh, hey! You're back!"

"Yeah," Keith chuckles, sheepish in the face of Lance's unbridled excitement. He manages to drop his bag at his feet and then Lance is on him, arms around his neck, body pressed flush to his, pulling Keith into a kiss.

Keith murmurs, "Surprise," the moment Lance lets him have any air and Lance's eager laughter breaks across his face. His ribs twinge, protesting the way Lance leans against him, the way Lance squeezes and pulls at him, but he can blame his breathlessness on those things alone rather than the small pain. It's an annoyance that he is happy to ignore. Lance kisses his cheek. His hands fall to Keith's wrists and he pulls Keith with him as he steps back toward the bed, grinning.

"So Kolivan let you come home early?" he asks, "I thought you guys were in pretty deep over there smoothing out some property issues."

"Negotiations sort of fell through when an asteroid hit the fields in question."

"An asteroid!?" Lance sits on the bed, his brow knitting with concern and confusion, "Are you kidding!? I didn't hear anything about an asteroid."

"It wasn't a big one," Keith reassures him. Lance scoots further back onto the bed so he can lay down, so Keith can crawl over the top of him. "We had some debris and aftershocks in the city, and a few buildings took some damage, but it wasn't anything serious."

It's how he bruised his ribs, actually - the courtyard he was standing in buckled and slid in the quake from the impact. But if he says that then Lance will make him get up and go to the medical bay. And Keith is really enjoying the way Lance's hands smooth up his biceps and his knees come up to bracket Keith's hips, even if supporting his weight like this is causing an unpleasant burning sensation in his ribs.

Keith measures his breathing and leans down to nuzzle Lance's neck, finding his mark with ease, inhaling Lance's scent as it tugs at all of his senses. Lance's hair still has that damp curl to it and Keith can smell his body wash, his lotion, and underneath the natural salty scent of his skin. It makes it easier to block out the pain and focus on Lance's soft laughter. His hands come up to card through Keith's hair, getting caught in the loose braid.

"Oh man. Sounds exciting," Lance murmurs, "Maybe you should relax, huh?"

"That was kinda the plan," Keith admits, mouthing at his mark. He grazes it with the sharp points of his fangs and smooths over it with his tongue.

Lance's intake of breath is music to his ears, "Yeah?"

"Mhm."

"That why you ran home to me so fast?" Lance asks, teasingly, as his hands curl into the front of Keith's uniform and tug. "And didn't even change clothes?"

"I figured you'd wanna take them off of me."

"Oh, wow, this  _ is _ a treat~"

Lance's hands have already dropped lower, working open Keith's belt as Keith lifts his head to kiss him, long and slow, humming a soft affirmative.

The standard Marmoran uniform is a dark bodysuit. The officer's suits are adorned with a tunic-style wrap across both shoulders, cinched at the waist, and Lance's deft fingers make quick work of loosening the ties. He smooths his hands up Keith's chest, over his shoulder, pushing the uniform so that it slips open as he goes. He finds the zipper for the suit at the nape of Keith's neck and eases it down, between shoulder blades, along the deep dip of Keith's spine as he shifts to press his body into Lance's. 

The cool air of their shared room kisses Keith's skin. He was getting too warm under the suit, and the open slit down his back brings immediate relief in more ways than one. He hadn't realized the kind of pressure the skintight suit was putting on his burning ribs until it eases.

His breath rushes out of him, puffing against Lance's neck and raising goosebumps.

Lance chuckles deep in his chest. His palms slide over Keith's newly exposed skin and the suit slips effortlessly from Keith's shoulders. 

"What do you wanna do, babe?" Lance asks. He peels the suit down over Keith's shoulders, as far down his arms as it will go with Keith laying over him. He turns his head, kissing Keith's cheek. "You wanna get frisky with me, or do you just wanna cuddle?"

"Doesn't matter," Keith gasps, shifting his weight fully onto one elbow. He keeps his face against Lance's neck, breathing in his scent.

His breath is coming quicker than he'd like. The painful throbbing in his ribs is getting difficult to ignore. His hand shakes as he moves it across the mattress, trying not to collapse and crush Lance underneath him. He's constrained by his loose body suit, tense as he shifts his knees, trying to settle comfortably.

"No," Lance's voice is firm, "What do you  _ want, _ Keith? ...What's the matter?"

"Nothing. Uh. Can we just… cuddle?"

It's not what he wanted originally. He wanted to get frisky. He was thinking about it from the moment Kolivan said he would be coming home early - his generally sluggish libido kicking into full gear - but his stupid, stubborn ribs are quickly shifting his desire around. He wants to lay down. He wants to be close to Lance and he wants to ease some of the pressure off his side because it's killing him.

Lance pushes at his shoulders, gently.

"That's fine," he says, "Sit up, okay?"

Keith gratefully complies, letting Lance pull his arms free of the suit as he sits back. He already feels better with it coming off his chest, feels like he can breathe - until Lance plants his hands on Keith's shoulders and flips them suddenly, pressing Keith's back firmly into the mattress and moving to straddle his hips.

Keith is too winded at first to notice the scowl on Lance's face. He swears he blacks out for a second, the pain in his ribs like a bolt of lightning as it snags inside his lungs and  _ pulls _ the breath right out of him. When he blinks open his eyes, there are spots of color dancing across his vision and his chest is rising and falling in quick little jerks that sting on the way in and burn on the way out.

In fact, his whole body is burning.

Lance is still sitting on his hips. One hand is soothing down the center of Keith's chest, his palm cool in comparison to Keith's heated skin.

His other hand is holding his comm to his ear.

Keith registers belatedly that he's talking, but he only catches the tail end of it, "Thanks, Coran, I appreciate it. Give us a few dobashes."

"Lance…" Keith breathes his name, lifts his hands to lay them on Lance's knees to ground himself.

Lance tosses his comm to the mattress and leans over Keith, careful to keep his weight on the hand he rests on the bed beside Keith's chest.

"What the quiznak is this?" he demands. Keith responds to the faint touch of his other hand with a heavy flinch. Lance's fingers ghost over his ribs, and Keith strangles the noise he makes when it hurts, his own hand jerking up to circle Lance's wrist. "Keith, you've got three cracked ribs!"

"It's fine," Keith gusts out.

"No, it's not fine, look how bruised it is! You've got an infection! You're getting a fever! And you're a damn hypocrite, you know that?"

Keith groans.

"I wanted to surprise you!"

"What would have surprised me is you seeking medical attention for a serious injury!"

"I wanted to see you…" Keith mumbles it.

Lance's furious expression softens, reluctantly. His voice is gentle this time, "You can see me after. C'mon, Coran is prepping a pod for you. It's just a few hours, and we can do anything you want after."

Keith sighs. He doesn't have much of a choice.

Lance gets out of bed, and Keith gingerly rolls out after him, hugging his side. Lance digs a pair of grey sweatpants out of the dresser for Keith to change into, and helps Keith struggle out of his remaining suit to put them on. Lance folds his hand around Keith's, leading him from the room and through the winding corridors at a slow and careful pace so Keith doesn't jar his angry ribs.

It’s definitely not the spicy evening that he had in mind.

  
But Lance stays with him, and keeps his promise, and Keith loves him  _ so much. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah! I'm suddenly feeling very overwhelmed by things that are happening with life and the motivation to finish these has essentially flooded out of my system...! So this is the last one for the foreseeable future (and it's several days early bc you guys deserve it!). You've been amazing and supportive, and I truly appreciate all the kudos and comments! I am unbelievably happy that people are still enjoying this series bc it really means a lot to me, which is why I don't want to push myself to finish when it's just not at the front of my mind right now! I am very much not a marathon writer, I am the slow, meticulously picking at sentences, 'I either write 3k or 200 words in one day and there is no in between' kind of writer - so it's a miracle (and an attest to how hyped I get bc of u guys) that I made it this far, honestly. 
> 
> I hope you guys understand! With NaNoWriMo and the holidays just around the corner, and with offspring to plan for, I really want to take a breather and then try to focus on my original stuff (which I'm hoping to finish and publish... eventually lmao). I'll do my best to finish these whenever I get the chance!
> 
> The end of the year is always very hectic, but I hope you guys have a good one! ♡


	15. under the neon lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober 2019: Day 21. Laced Drink

It’s Date Night, and Keith is trying to step it up because the last couple of Date Nights have been pretty tame. Movies and snuggling in the lounge. Dinner together, just the two of them. Visiting the space mall. They went and saw an Onmari Onkue play, and unwittingly sat in the section that got doused with questionable fluids during the dramatized drowning of the protagonist. They went hiking in the Tyrelian mountains, and they even spent a weekend on one of Hanmar’s famous crystal beaches.

They were good dates.

Neither Lance nor Keith is complaining!

But when they were talking about it, Lance mentioned wanting to do something Exciting! Something Spontaneous! Something they haven’t really done before!

So Keith takes them clubbing.

It definitely puts him out of his comfort zone - loud music, hundreds of people wedged together in a sweaty, inebriated hoard - but Lance loves that kind of stuff. Mostly, he likes dancing and socializing. And they both enjoy the anonymity that comes with disappearing under the black lights and strobing colors of the dance floor, where no one will recognize the Paladins of Voltron.

It’s oddly liberating.

Keith has a headache ten minutes in, but he deals with it.

The pulsating beat of the music vibrates the floor, shivers up his legs and settles in his gut. The best thing about it, Keith thinks, is that he doesn’t have to worry about being good at dancing. He just has to bounce and turn and sway and let Lance pull him whichever way he likes. No one is judging when he missteps, when he loses the rhythm. Lance just laughs, his voice sharp over the bass-heavy outro of the song, and steadies Keith with his hands.

They’ve both had a couple of drinks, just enough to loosen up, but not to lose awareness of their surroundings.

They’re not complete idiots.

Lance is wearing a white T-shirt beneath a light jacket, red lines with white seams - the red looks pink under the lights, the white an eye-straining neon purple. He also dusted his cheekbones, his neck, the backs of his hands, with glitter. Just for the hell of it. The effect is that Lance’s brown skin sparkles, catching and throwing every imaginable color in a thousand tiny points of light across his cheeks, like minute galaxies.

It’s simultaneously the cutest and sexiest thing Keith has ever seen. He had laughed at first, but he digs it. (He can’t wait to get home and get ahold of Lance in earnest, can’t wait to be covered in that glitter, himself.)

His classic black clothes don’t do anything exciting. His pale skin, on the other hand, flashes under the ever-shifting strobe lights; his face, his bare arms. When one of the lights saturates them both in a deep purple, Keith knows exactly what Lance is grinning about.

“You’d be such a cute Galra,” Lance shouts over the music. He is right in Keith’s ear, and Keith barely even hears him.

He hardly cares to, because Lance’s lips brush over the bolt of his jaw and skim his ear, and Lance’s hands sneak up from Keith’s waist, under the tail of his shirt in search of his sweat-damp skin. He’s still moving them both to the beat of the music, but they’re mostly swaying in place, bodies pressed close enough to bump together.

Keith rests his hands around Lance’s elbows, loosely, and lets him cop a feel.

He’s just being playful.

Neither of them are going to start anything in public.

Keith nips at Lance’s neck when he’s had enough, and Lance yelps theatrically. He’s still grinning when he pulls back. Still keeps his hands on Keith’s waist. He leans in to drop a kiss against Keith’s lips.

“How’s your headache, babe?”

“It’s fine.”

“Lets go sit out a minute.”

Lance takes him by the hand and weaves them seamlessly through the crowd of churning alien bodies. The lights are dimmer once they step off the dance floor. The club still resonates with the sound of the music, but it isn’t so all encompassing and they don’t have to outright shout to hear each other anymore. Keith’s headache is pounding away, but it dulls somewhat as they lose proximity to the loudspeakers and the earth-shattering bass.

The club is, of course, equipped with a bar that dominates one entire wall, but there is also a lounge area in the back that isn’t nearly as crowded. A handful of couples or parties are arranged around the sofas and tables. Chatter and laughter, the sharp clatter of glasses, replaces the music. Lance snags ahold of a waiter and orders them another round of drinks, and pulls Keith off to one side, where there are a couple of unoccupied booths.

Lance drops into the cushiony seat, and Keith sits across from him so he doesn’t get any ideas. He gets handsy when he gets a good buzz going. Keith doesn’t mind. But he enjoys playing hard to get sometimes.

It’s fun to watch Lance work for his attention.

“You’re a tease,” Lance declares loudly, laughing.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Keith asserts, just as loudly. But he does lean forward to rest his elbows on the table, making his T-shirt sleeves strain around his biceps, and he does spread his knees more than necessary beneath the glass-topped table.

Lance notices. Licks his lips.

“You’re mean!”

Keith laughs.

Lance’s comm buzzes. He pulls it from his pocket and checks the screen to make sure it’s not an emergency.

“It’s Hunk checking in to make sure we haven’t been kidnapped or assassinated,” Lance says. He taps the screen, purses his lips, and makes as if to stand, motioning with the comm. “There is somehow enough signal for me to receive an intergalactic text message but not enough signal for me to _ send _ one! I’m gonna step out real quick to let him know we’re alright. Do you want to get some air?”

“I’ll wait on our drinks,” Keith says.

“Oh right!”

Lance glances hopefully toward the bar, but it looks like their waiter is flirting with the bartender. They might be a while. Lance hops up out of the booth, leans down to press a kiss to Keith’s cheek.

“Okay I’ll be quick!”

He jogs toward the nearest exit, eyes on his communicator.

Keith watches him, smiling, until Lance is out of sight. He gives his surroundings a cursory glance, then pulls out his own comm, thumbing through his own messages. Most of them are work related. Since it’s Date Night and work isn’t allowed, Keith doesn’t give any of them more than a quick read-through before he closes out of them; it’s more to keep himself occupied than anything else.

The waiter drops their drinks off with a smile and whisks away the generous tip Keith offers them with an even broader smile.

Keith pushes Lance’s drink, a tall chilled glass with blue fizzy liquor tickling the sides, across the table. Those bastards always give him heartburn, but Lance likes how “tingly” they feel going down, and they’re more sugar than alcohol. Keith cracks the cap off of his own bottle and downs the foam that billows out before it can spill over the table. The brew is a little stronger, a lot smoother.

But Lance is the one piloting the shuttle back home, and Keith thinks he’s allowed to relax and indulge a little bit. He isn’t stupid enough to get wasted.

But a beer won’t kill him.

He sets it down on the table, scans the lounge, looks toward the exit - still no sign of Lance.

Keith swipes the condensation off the dark red bottle with his thumb. Someone moves in his peripheral, and Keith glances up, only to realize that his and Lance’s cover is officially blown when he makes eye contact with a humanoid alien that’s walking straight toward the table. She has pink skin, flowing pink hair, and yellow eyes that glow in the dimness with no visible pupils.

She flashes Keith a bold smile.

Keith doesn’t return the gesture.

Nothing sours his mood faster than being recognized and _ approached. _ Don’t these people know what “off duty” means? Keith has to be the Black Paladin, Leader of Voltron and the Coalition of Free People, 99.9% of the time. He only wants that _ POINT ONE PERCENT _ to be Keith Kogane, Lance McClain’s boyfriend.

“Varsnik,” she says in greeting. Keith recognizes that she is from the planet Demnia, then. “Keith, right?”

“Can I help you with something?” he asks, hoping she will take the hint from his unfriendly tone.

Instead, her smile widens and she sidles a step closer.

“My friends and I recognized you,” she presses on, “Never expected to see Paladins of Voltron in a place like this. Didn’t think you guys ever unwinded.”

“Surprise,” Keith says.

“We were wondering if you guys wanted to dance with us. Or, could we buy you a round of drinks? Have a friendly chat? I’d love to hear some war stories.”

“Sounds…. tempting.” It doesn’t. “Maybe next time.”

She leans her hip against the table, one hand braced against the glastop near his beer, still smiling that beguiling smile that probably works on guys who aren’t gayer than a two dollar bill and also asexual. She is close enough for her scent to hit his sensitive nose, then, and Keith struggles to keep his expression neutral as he leans back from her, straightening in his seat.

“Oh, come on,” she encourages, “The night is so young!”

“Sorry, we’re kinda busy.”

His gaze darts past her, toward the exit again, when he sees a flash of light. Sure enough, there’s Lance.

Thank god.

Keith tries desperately to project _ Save Me _ across the room without giving it away on his face. It must work. Their bond is pretty strong, almost psychic at times. That, or Lance just spots someone at their table, clearly hitting Keith up, and gets jealous enough to book it over, dodging around people like they’re landmines.

The Demnian jumps, straightening up, when Keith looks at her again, and she flashes him a smile that is full of sharp teeth, folding her hands behind her back.

She turns to Lance as he hops to a stop right behind her, and even willingly gives the ground when Lance moves, not subtle at all, to step between her and the table, and Keith. He’s breathless, frowning, but polite, “Hey, hi, how can I help you?”

She shrugs.

“Just wanted to meet the infamous Paladins.”

She gives Keith another devious, toothy smile, and then departs without sparing Lance so much as a glance. Perplexed, Keith and Lance both watch as she crosses the lounge and retakes her seat at the table among her friends, who immediately put their heads together and start whispering and shrieking and glancing over.

Keith turns his focus to his beer again, taking another healthy swig to distract himself.

Aliens…. it’s always something bizarre and incomprehensible.

Huffing, Lance sits back down across from him. He puts his hands around his glass, leaving marks in the previously unmarred chill on the surface, but he doesn’t move to take a drink. Instead, he’s still frowning at the Demnian. Still stewing a little. Beneath the table, Keith kicks him.

“Knock it off,” he laughs.

Lance huffs again. “You better put those guns away! They’re attracting other people!”

“I don’t want other people, Lance.”

Lance hums, but the assertion mollifies him. His cheeks darken beneath the glitter and he lifts the glass at last, taking a deep drink. He must have forgotten how fizzy it is, because he almost chokes on it. Keith has to reach over and thump him in the back, and he is just tipsy enough to laugh out loud at Lance’s plight, especially when Lance hams it up, saying that he _ almost died, Keith, have some compassion for your boyfriend! _

They finish their drinks and talk about nothing for a few minutes. Lance wants to hit the dance floor _ one more time _ and Keith indulges him with a smile.

His headache is gone.

But once Keith gets on his feet and starts moving again, he knows something is wrong.

He’s had a couple of drinks, sure. But Keith is familiar with that type of beer and he knows his tolerances. There’s no reason for the music to be so muffled and for the ground to be swaying and the colors all blurring together. Keith blinks, trying to focus. Lance is leading him by the hand again. Keith feels a little outside of his body as the two of them move, making room for themselves on the dance floor.

Lance is already moving to the beat, and Keith follows him on autopilot. Keith can feel the beat in his gut, but it sounds far away, like he’s underwater and it is a sound on the surface that can’t quite reach him.

Lance’s voice is the same way.

Keith only hears the impression of it.

He isn’t sure why he doesn’t say anything to Lance, why he doesn’t answer him. He isn’t even sure what Lance said. His vision blurs, all the colors and flashing lights and tiny galaxies spinning and darting and brightening and dimming and colliding into a kaleidoscopic view. A scent hits him, then. In a sea of vague sensations, it is solid and real, and Keith automatically turns his head toward its source.

It’s that alien.

The Demnian.

She’s dancing nearby.

Keith does not even question why, while everything else around him has grown indistinct, he can see her perfectly. Her glowing sclera, the flash of her white teeth. He can even hear her breathy chuckle over all the muffled sounds.

Something yanks on his arms, and Keith swings his head back around to Lance.

He blinks. Focuses. Just for a moment.

The bass fades into his awareness, and Lance is looking at him with concern, his large hands locked firmly around Keith’s elbows. Keith realizes he was trying to pull away, but he can’t remember why.

_ “Keith,” _ Lance shouts. His voice sends a numb thrill through Keith’s chest. “What’s the matter?”

They’ve stopped dancing.

The two of them are just standing on the floor while all around them everyone else is carrying on. Keith’s head feels like it’s spinning, spinning, spinning.

”H-huh?” is all Keith manages.

Lance is leaning so close to his face that Keith can count every individual grain of iridescent glitter dusting his cheek bones. They stand out to him with such intensity that everything else fades away, a darkness creeping in around the edges of his vision - a sense of peace - until Lance shakes him. Hard.

_ “Keith. Your pupils are way dilated, cariño, what’s wrong? Are you feeling okay? Keith?” _

Keith’s knees are giving out.

He’s sinking to the floor, and Lance’s grip on his arms is the only thing keeping him upright.

He catches a whiff of that scent again - tantalizing, tinged with something sweet - and turns his head toward the Demnian again. She’s closer than before. Lance hasn’t noticed her. There’s a predatory look in her eyes that wasn’t there before, a narrow red slit of pupil visible in the deep yellow pools of her eyes, and Keith shudders.

He’s being hunted.

He fucked up. Wasn’t watching his drink. Let his guard down. And he is more worried about Lance being in danger than he is about what the Demnian might do to him if she manages to get him away from Lance.

Lance is not helpless, though - and he is fiercely protective and frighteningly intuitive.

He sees where Keith is looking, connects the dots.

Holding onto Keith with one hand, Lance manifests his bayard - a red pistol that burns brightly under the neon lights - and he fires a stun-shot.

His aim is _ that _ good.

He doesn’t hit a single person surging wildly around them, he hits his target dead on, and the Demnian crumples with a shriek that causes a minor disruption to the sound waves. The music hiccups, then resumes. The shot doesn’t seem to have stunned her fully. She finds the strength to glower at Lance, but sits prone on the floor, her body occasionally pulling with involuntary jerks.

Whatever she laced his drink with must be working in tandem with some sort of thrall she put on her prey with the help of her scent. The second she goes down, Keith regains enough of his senses for his pounding headache to come back tenfold and to bear his own weight, though he remains leaning heavily against Lance. The room is still spinning. Keith still feels hazy and malleable, and he clutches at Lance.

The world tips around dangerously as Lance pulls Keith over his shoulder, not trusting him to walk.

Keith tries to stay aware of what’s going on.

But all he can see is the back of Lance’s shirt, all he can feel is Lance’s arm around his waist, a reassuring weight; and all he can hear is the steady bass of the club’s music as it fades away, beating like a pulse outside of his body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello there! It's been a YEAR and it is officially "Whumptober" again, so here I am, sneaking in unexpectedly with an update! I am a very happy stay-at-home mommy now! Alas, I find myself with almost NO time to write now with a little girl dominating my every waking moment, even though I have never felt more motivated in my life! It's a work in progress! I am absolutely not going to be crunching one of these bad boys out every day, and I am refusing to go "in order" because order has fallen by the wayside, but I was going to do my best to get some of them done!
> 
> It's 2020 and Klance is still the only thing I care about lmao I hope you guys are doing alright!


	16. fissuring into the shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober 2019: Day 22. Hallucination

Lance wakes up with that weird tickle in the back of his throat and knows exactly what it means.

He's getting sick.

Again.

This always happens after he visits planets that have an unusually high pollen count. This time, it was the aptly named Germa Nexa. It's like they - the  _ germs, _ from Nexa or otherwise - burrow into his otherwise nonexistent allergies and work to compromise his immune system Just Because They Can. It's not usually anything worse than a cold. But he still ends up feeling like crap for a couple of days.

Unfortunately for the germs trying to throw Lance off his groove, he has Paladin duties to fulfill - and he’s stubborn. There's an upcoming Coalition meeting to redistribute resources through one of the more damaged systems at the outskirts of Nebulus Six that he's responsible for, and his Mama didn't raise a quitter. He drinks a glass of vitamin-rich juice to give his body the boost that it needs, eats a good breakfast, and regretfully declines Keith's invitation to a morning sparring match.

"I'll go easy on you," Keith offers, clearly disappointed and trying to entice Lance into changing his mind by playfully insulting him.

As much as Lance wants to spend an hour excitedly pinning (or, even better, being pinned by) his boyfriend on the soft mats of the training room, he knows it will wipe him out. He needs to use his energy wisely here. He can already feel the edges of fatigue trying to sink its hooks into him from going about his normal routine. What he really needs to do is sit at the computer in the intel room and work out the distribution plans he's going to present at the meeting in two days.

He pokes Keith in the chest and asserts, "Next time. And  _ I'll _ be the one going easy on  _ you, _ mullet." He laughs softly as Keith lets out a defeated sigh. Lance grasps his arm. "I'm sorry, babe. That meeting is sneaking up on me."

"I know," Keith sighs again, as if he doesn't also have plenty of work to do.

He moves his arm so that Lance's grip on his bicep slides to his wrist, and then he turns his hand to twine their fingers together. Lance wants to melt into that small embrace at once. But he lets Keith kiss his cheek and then pull away without crying about it.

"Later, then," Keith says over his shoulder.

"Yeah," Lance says, watching him go.

-x-

The thing about being sick is that the full-body ache and the weariness that accompanies it are terrible things to focus on. The best solution is to keep yourself distracted from bodily woes. But when your unmedicated brain likes to latch onto things all by itself and  _ hyper focus _ on them, these minor symptoms are tyrannical, amplified and monopolized by every thought.

Lance tries doggedly to put together some cohesive plans, but in the end, it's hard to focus on the work when he's busy playing and replaying the discomfort that grows steadily from an innocuous throat-tickle to entirely chugged sinuses and an unbearably sore everything from his face to his lungs. After a couple of long hours, and with blowing his nose for the hundredth time yielding no better results - with the edges of his vision flickering, as if something is standing just out of sight and causing him to turn his head to catch the movement - he has to call the work Good Enough. His head is pounding, and he feels like he's melting from the inside out.

Lance picks his tablet up from where it's synced with the desk and carries it, dragging his feet, to the workstation bays that Hunk and Pidge use for tinkering. Hunk is there, surrounded by engine parts and covered in grease, as happy as a lark. He shoots Lance a sunshine-bright smile when he comes through the bay door.

"Hey, bud! Ohh," his tone and posture shifts immediately into sympathy upon seeing Lance's face. That's not exactly a confidence booster. "What's up, Lance? I thought you were a little quiet this morning but man, you look rough now. Are you sick?"

"Getting there," Lance admits. There's no point in denying it when his voice is scratching out and his exhales are wheezy. Any sniffling he does is counterproductive. "Are you like, super busy right now, or are you hobby-ing?"

"Hobby-ing," Hunk says, dropping his tools in favor of a rag to clean his hands with. He climbs to his feet. "Whatcha need, bud?"

Lance holds out the tablet for Hunk to take when he no longer has grimy paws.

"Can you look over these for me?"

"What? Your meeting stuff?" Hunk asks curiously. He glances at the screen, then at his hand to be sure it's grease-free, then takes the tablet.

"I just wanted a second opinion," Lance says, cupping his forehead, "My head space is all fuzzy right now. I didn't want to screw anything up, y'know?"

"Okay, one: I seriously doubt you're gonna screw anything up because you have done this like, a hundred times by now and I can already tell you've come up with three different plans when you probably only needed one - "

"I wanted to be prepared!"

"And two," Hunk goes on, unfazed, "Do you need me to fill in for you? Cause like, not to be mean, but you really don't look or sound great right now."

"Maybe. I… I dunno. I think I just need to take some medicine and rest," Lance says. He absolutely doesn't want to burden Hunk with this or seem like he's trying to shirk his work. He  _ knows  _ that's not what he's doing, and he knows the others  _ know, _ but the idea still plants in itself pretty firmly in the back of his mind, cloying at his conscience. "I'm sure I'll feel better by the time the meeting rolls around. Thanks, though."

"No problem, Lance," Hunk says, "Want me to make some not-quite potato soup or something? I was gonna head to the kitchen anyway."

Lance considers it. Then considers the way his stomach turns, queasy from all the mucus sliding down his throat and settling in his lungs and stomach. He shakes his head, makes a face.

"Uhh…. Maybe later, Hunk. I kinda just wanna lay down right now."

"Understandable. Take it easy, alright? Lemme know if you need anything."

"I will. Thanks, bud."

They bump fists, and part ways outside with Hunk going to clean up and Lance slinking off to the medical bay. He swiped his wrist across his furrowed brow, making a real effort to get a deep, proper breath that doesn't leave him staggering. Just walking seems to be winding him. And he feels hot on top of sore. And a little nauseous. And he keeps turning his head to catch movement that isn't there… He can help himself to something in the medicine cabinet and take a nap.

Thought oughta help.

-x-

Maybe Lance's fever is a little higher than he thought.

He makes it to the med bay no problem, takes a decongestant and a pain reliever/fever reducer that he finds in the cabinet, slinks to his and Keith's room, downs a lime-esque packet out of the mini fridge to ease his nausea and sore throat, takes off his clothes, and climbs into bed. But his body won't let him rest. It is  _ adamant  _ about making him suffer as much as possible.

It's hard to breathe under the covers, so Lance folds them back. He gets chilled and pulls them up again. The room wobbles back and forth, swinging like a pendulum if he's on his back or his stomach, so Lance curls on his side, snuggling between the pillows to have some sense of stability. No matter how he arranges them, his arms and legs ache like they haven't in years - not since his last growth spurt, at twenty, deep down in the muscle and bone.

He's lonely, and tired, and feeling miserable enough to cry about it silently, his face buried in a pillow.

He doesn’t fall asleep easily, and even when he does he starts awake and blinks blearily around the room, certain something disturbed him.

The room is empty.

The sleep lights are turned down to a barely-there glow.

Lance is still convinced someone is in the room with him and he turns over, away from the wall.

“Keith…?”

His voice rakes at his throat. He coughs to clear it. Swallows dryly. Rubs the grime out of his eyes. Lance sinks back down into the pillows, too exhausted to keep himself upright, and stares across the room. Oh. There’s Keith. He’s standing behind the desk in the corner.

Why didn’t he say anything when he came in?

Lance hums softly, but the pain he knows his voice will bring isn’t worth it. His head is pounding, and heat radiates from his face when he lifts the back of his hand to rub his cheek. His vision blurs a little bit, the blue sleep lights fissuring into the shadows. Keith shifts in and out of focus.

Lance realizes he can’t see Keith’s face.

For some reason, it’s cast in shadow.

And he’s just standing there….

Lance had assumed he was getting something from the desk, but now he’s not so sure.

The longer Keith stands there, silent, motionless, the more unsettled Lance becomes. He closes his eyes, convinced that he’s dreaming… everything aches so badly, though, and he’s so hot and it’s so hard to breathe… he must be awake. A dream would dull the way his heart gives a funny lurch inside his chest. Adrenaline wouldn’t flood through his system and cause his flight reflexes to kick.

Even if it did, the jolt would wake him.

Lance’s body jerks, but he doesn’t have the strength to actually get up, so that restless, debilitating energy just makes him shake and hum nervously and turn his face into the pillow, gripping it tightly in his hands. The next time he dares to look, Keith’s shaded figure is looming just beyond the edge of the bed, close enough to touch.

In between his pants for breath, Lance moans, “Stooop. Keith. You’re... freaking me out, babe...”

Keith doesn’t listen.

He’s so much closer, and Lance  _ still _ can’t see his face.

Just an  _ emptiness _ that stares back.

“Keith,  _ stop… please...” _

Lance squeezes his eyes closed.

A cold hand ghosts over his cheek. It lights up his nerves in the worst way and Lance flinches back, heart leaping into his throat as he throws out his arm;  _ “S-stop!” _ He hits something very real, very solid. That broad hand returns. It clamps down gently over his forehead, warming with the heat burning his skin, smoothing back into his damp hair, fingertips rubbing at his temples, and Keith’s steady, worried voice says, “Lance? What’s the matter?”

Lance still has his eyes closed.

He’s shaking, afraid to open them.

He can barely get his breath, “You’re freaking… you’re freaking me out…. Knock it off…”

The hand petting his hair withdraws at once.

“Sorry.” Keith’s voice is a low, steady rumble. “Hunk said you weren’t feeling good. I brought you some medicine. And that soup you like. I knew something was wrong with you this morning when you didn’t want to spar. … Do you want me to leave you alone? Lance?”

Knuckles gently swipe down his cheek, and Lance realizes he’s crying. That’s why it’s so damn hard to breathe. Trying to get some air in around his hopeless sniffling, Lance lifts a hand to rub his eyes. They’re all gummy and wet. His face feels disgusting.

When he tentatively peels his eyes open, hiding behind his hand, he sees that Keith is leaning over him. The sleep lights in the headboard of the bed illuminate his face, the crease of his brow, the downward pull of his mouth; the blue light catches in his dark eyes, tinged with yellow so he can see better in the dimness. Lance gusts out a sigh of relief. It comes out like a sob, and he reaches for Keith to reassure himself that Keith is really here and not some phantom dredged up by his feverish brain.

Keith lets himself be pulled down, makes sure to brace his weight on his knee on the edge of the bed.

Lance clings with both hands to Keith’s arms and rubs his face against Keith’s chest. He’s too exhausted and anxious to do anything else for several minutes. He shakes, and Keith steadies him without a second thought.

“Will you… will you lay down with me?” Lance gasps.

“Whatever you want, Lance,” Keith says, nudging him over.

Lance makes room in the bed, lifting up the sweaty sheets, pushing away the rumpled pillows, and Keith slots in against him after hastily kicking off his boots and his jeans. Lance’s gaze darts over his shoulder at the flickering shadows beyond and then back to Keith’s face. Lance touches his cheek, brushes his hair back, all small reassurances - especially when Keith smiles at him and rubs his back, leaning in to nuzzle his face into Lance’s hair at the crown of his head.

Only momentarily does Keith crane away from him, reaching for something in the bedside table. He returns with a cool rag that he places on Lance’s forehead, not caring in the slightest that it dampens his shirt collar when Lance sighs gratefully and buries his face there. His arm is a comforting weight around Lance's shoulders, their legs tangled with Lance's resting more on top of Keith's than the other way around. Lance moans quietly into Keith's shirt, the noise resounding inside his head like a drum and throbbing with his pulse.

Keith's hand comes up to card through Lance's hair, fingers soothing along his scalp to ease the ache without Lance even having to ask.

"Is that better?" Keith asks, curled protectively around him. Lance hums an affirmative, and feels Keith’s pleasure through the bond they share. It's a bright sensation that alleviates a small bit of that lingering pain and unexplainable fear, replacing it with calm and love and a warmth that is pleasant and thrilling rather than smothering.

"Thank you, Keith," Lance mumbles, already feeling drowsy again, feeling a little overwhelmed, but in a good way this time. He snuggles in closer to Keith's chest, flattening his palms against Keith's back.

"You don't have to thank me, Lance," Keith murmurs in return, squeezing him gently.

He tucks his face into Lance's hair and cups the back of his neck, his fingers slipping beneath the shirt collar to rub over his mark at the slope of Lance's neck. It isn't very prominent, just barely visible from Keith's few clumsy attempts to leave it. Lance sighs, relaxing further. This time, he falls asleep easily, breathing in Keith's scent through his open mouth and lulled by the sound of his heartbeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm SOFT ALRIGHT! Also I may forsake some of the remaining 2019 prompts and just sidle right on into the 2020 Whumptober prompts because who cares about the rules? Certainly not me!


End file.
